


No Good Deed

by uglycourage



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Arthur Fleck/OC - Freeform, F/M, Joker/OC - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-12-09 07:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglycourage/pseuds/uglycourage
Summary: As Arthur is being beaten into unconsciousness at the beginning of the film, a semi-Good Samaritan intervenes. She’ll come to wish she hadn’t.





	1. Chapter 1

Fiona had just taken a sip of her scalding black coffee when a group of kids bolted past her, jostling her hard enough to loosen the grip she had on the cup.

“Motherfucker!” she griped as her late morning pick-me-up splattered onto the concrete.

She turned to chastise them, but they’d fled deep into a nearby alleyway. Another figure sped past her, though thankfully, they were kind enough to avoid hitting her. She had to blink a few times, momentarily drained of fury. Was that a _clown_ chasing them?

She thought to leave well enough alone. Though a resident of Gotham for just under six months, she was well-aware, especially living on an area straddling the border between lower class and middle, of the city’s climbing crime rate. There was a creeping sense of hopelessness infecting the residents, often the impoverished and destitute. A lack of economic stability and subsequent job prospects coerced otherwise hard-working people into criminals and empathy-lacking bystanders. Even now, she noted she hadn’t been the only one privy to this chase. But a quick scan at the handful of other witnesses informed her they didn’t consider it the effort of getting involved. And that apathy…it didn’t sit right with her.

_Guess she’ll have to wait._

Fiona patted her side, confirming the weapon she’d brought with her across the country was indeed still there. Rolling back her shoulders, she neared the alleyway, chin held high. It wouldn’t do to appear meek and uncertain; nevermind she stood at an unimposing five-foot four. If anything, she hardened her naturally soft features, and the smile her father swore could melt an ice cap, slackened to a tight scowl.

“Get him! Beat his ass, c’mon!”

“Yeah you piece of shit clown! Fucking like that?”

She froze upon taking in the situation. The man in the clown suit formerly chasing the kids, lay huddled in a fetal position, weakly attempting to protect his major organs from the onslaught of kicks and hits. And the punks weren’t going easy on him. Low, mournful groans flew from the man’s trembling mouth as he received bruise after bruise after bruise until the biggest kid among them aimed a swift kick to his face, nearly flipping him over onto his back as the crack of bone echoed through the alley, followed by a seemingly endless gush of blood from his nostrils.

“Now what in the ever lovin’ _fuck_ is goin’ on here?”

Upon seeing her approaching form, for the briefest of seconds, the teens were petrified in place. As if it only just dawned on them that it might not be nice to beat the shit out of another human being.

Sadly, it was short-lived.

“Not your fucking business, lady,” the tallest one called.

She was relieved to see them gradually losing interest in harming the man on the ground, who worked feebly at moving into a sitting position.

“It fuckin’ is my business you fuckin’ shits,” she retorted, continuing her march forward. “I have half a mind to beat your asses myself. What the fuck is wrong with y’all?”

They ambled toward her with grins that had her hand twitching to backhand them each.

“_What the fuck is wrong with y’all_?” the shortest one mocked, earning a him a round of jeers. “Wherever the fuck you’re from, lady, you better go back or we’ll send you back in a fucking bodybag.”

_Almighty fuck, who the hell taught these shits they can behave like this?_

She glimpsed movement in the corner of her peripheral. The beaten man had managed to prop himself up against the brick wall, blood nearly serving as a second mask to his makeup. Though long brown strands obscured a good look at his face, she was able to pick out his eyes through them, surprisingly piercing and much more animated than she’d have thought him capable of producing, given his current state.

“I’m gonna give you snot nosed little assholes til the count of three to scatter.”

The tallest one, clearly the leader, ignored her, quickly closing the remaining distance between them.

“Or what?” he goaded.

Before she could answer, he sucked in his cheeks and released a glob of spit, striking her just below her right eye.

Fiona didn’t think twice as a chorus of laughter rang out. She clenched her fist, retracted her arm, and sent a neck-breaking punch straight at his face. He stumbled backwards, blinking dumbly as he patted at his nose, no doubt wondering why it was no longer in a straight position. Blood flowed from him like a waterfall and from how badly her own knuckles throbbed, she could tell he was a little dazed, unable to maintain balance.

“You crazy bitch!” one screamed, pulling out a switchblade. “You’re going to fucking pay for that.”

Fiona wrapped her hand around the handle of the machete strapped to her thigh and whipped it out, swinging it two times in front of her in a criss cross motion before pointing it at the punk with the switchblade.

“Y’all mama’s and daddy’s clearly ain’t givin’ you the ass whoopin’ y’all so desperately deserve. But,” She pointed the tip at each and every one of them. “lucky for y’all, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

In the blink of an eye, they took off, either scrambling past her or booking it in the opposite direction. The last to escape was the one she’d punched, who couldn’t run without the assistance of the brick on either side of him.

She looked ahead of her, and then behind. One hand swiped away the drying spit on her cheek.

_Shit on a stick, I have half a mind to find their parents and beat their asses too._

But the rage was quickly subsiding as she slid her machete into its holder.

_Wouldn’t do much good anyway. Parents that raise kids like that aren’t concerned with compassion or decency._

She’d known moving to Gotham would come with its fair share of adjustments, her mother excluded, but it didn’t sink in until moments like these where she was forced to be a harsher version of herself, just how dire the situation was. And anytime she looked in the paper to politicians or city leaders for solutions, they neglected to admit that there were any problems to begin with.

_So the city is just magically a dumping ground for trash? Crime is magically on the rise for no reason? Businesses are magically closing left and right for shits n giggles?_

Sighing, she rubbed her temples.

_She’s gonna be pissed I’m late._

A cough broke Fiona out of her trance. She looked up, nearly forgetting the bruised and bloodied man still watching her from a slumped position.

She jogged over to him until she was at an arm’s distance away. Kneeling, she frowned when he flinched, suddenly looking at anything but her.

“Hey,” she offered softly, “I’m sorry. If I’d ‘ave known they were gonna be so rotten to ya, I’d have stopped them sooner. You alright?”

His bottom lip trembled as he struggled to meet her eyes.

“Need me to call someone? Take ya to the hospital?”

He shook his head hard enough to free some strands that’d been glued to his face by a mix of sweat and blood. High cheekbones and full lashes were open to her gaze. Thick, dark eyebrows were stiff and bristled with paint. His nose was only slightly less worse than the number she’d done on the kid.

“I-I-.”

He sounded so broken already she had a hard time not offering him some sort of comfort, be it a hand on his shoulder or kind word. If only to ease him.

“Thank you.”

She smiled, deciding there and then the man posed no risk to her. She dropped down into a sitting position in front of him so they were eye level. This seemed to make him relax a little. Enough to finally meet her eyes.

Fiona didn’t know how to name the emotion swimming in them. Some sort of dormant instinct deep within made her fingers flick in the direction of her weapon.

_What lies beneath isn’t sane._

But the thought was brief, and in her opinion, not very fair. She didn’t know anything about him to determine something so judgmental.

_Couldn’t hurt to be cautious though. He’d been chasing them first._

“What’s your name?” she tried.

He appeared briefly amazed, brows shooting together until they were nearly touching.

“M-my name?”

“Yeah. You got one, right? Or should I refer to ya as Mr. Honk? Or Mr. Flappy? Or Mr. Jokes-A-Lot?”

A piercing laugh tore from his lungs, causing her to briefly jump. He continued bellowing, seemingly unable to stop, or from sounding like the coyotes that used to wail on nights she stayed over at her grandpapa’s farmhouse.

He shook his head violently, one hand reaching into his pocket until it had retrieved a laminated note card.

She read over his condition, intrigued despite herself. She’d never encountered such a condition before in anyone and couldn’t help but feel sympathy for him. How inhibiting it must make social interactions and work life. And embarrassing to have to explain himself over and over again, hoping the individual would understand.

The last of the laughter seemed to seep out of him.

“S-sorry,” he amended, exhaling shakily. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. If it helps at all, you actually made me laugh.”

The corner of her mouth shot up at that.

“Coming from a clown? Shucks, that’s a helluva compliment…Mr.-?”

“Fleck. Arthur.” He extended his hand, then seemed to think better of it.

Before he could drop it, she grabbed it and gave it a friendly shake. When it was time to pull away, she pretended not to notice the way his fingers tightened around hers.

“You do this full time, Arthur?”

She motioned at his get up.

“Business owners rent me out,” he explained, voice strengthening as he realized she meant him no harm. “I’m supposed to draw business in. And make people laugh…which is my favorite part.”

The smile that’d been crawling up his lips, abruptly dropped.

“They stole the sign I was given to advertise with. I had to get it back. Otherwise, I’m liable for it.”

Her eyes shot to the destroyed sign saturated with dumpster fluids and grime. Seeing it in pieces made her wish she hadn’t gone so easy on the brats.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” She turned back to him. “Kids at that age…they’re borderline sociopaths. Haven’t developed enough to understand how their actions impact others, and don’t care to neither. Don’t help with this city being the way it is. Bringin’ out the worst in people.”

He was studying her with parted lips, unbothered by the blood that managed to trickle its way into it.

“The best too,” was his soft response.

His gaze held her hostage. She thought she could break away if she was persistent, but something loomed behind the dark green of his irises that caused goosebumps to linger at the base of her spine. In her twenty-six years of living, she didn’t think she’d ever had such a dousing response to someone. The longer she looked, the more she felt like she was drowning in a human being she hardly knew.

_For god’s sake, focus, Fiona!_

The chide sounded distinctly like her mother, and this was enough to sever whatever visceral reaction she was having.

“Well, uh, thanks Arthur.” She rubbed the back of her neck, hoping he couldn’t see the blush spreading up her cheeks. “Sure I can’t call someone for ya? Get ya from point A to point B?”

He shook his head before resting it on the brick behind him.

“Can I at least straighten out your nose?” she asked. “Don’t think a rubber ball’ll fit on there properly.”

He nodded, seemingly content not to speak.

“This is gonna hurt a pinch,” she warned, returning to a kneel and edging a few inches closer to him. “I’mma count down from five.”

She dropped a hand onto his shoulder for balance. Neither acknowledged the shudder that coursed through him. Her index finger and thumb found where the bridge of his nose met the width of his nostrils.

“Five, four, three-.” She snapped his nasal bone up and to the right, startling Arthur.

But with a gentle prod, Fiona knew it was back into place, or as near as it was capable of being. She hoped he had someone to examine him further. She’d glimpsed her father do this only once to a neighbor boy that’d gotten the blunt force of a baseball to the face. Minus a whole lotta blood and some residual aches, he’d been back to playing within a week.

“Sorry,” she said. “I knew you’d tense up when I got to one.”

“It’s okay. It feels better. Thank you.” He blinked, studying her closely. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Fiona.”

He smiled at this. Like out of all the names he’d envisioned her to have, this one pleased him the most.

“_Fiona_,” he repeated, licking his bottom lip. “It’s a beautiful name. You-you’re not from around here.”

She was on the verge of explaining the upside down living situation that had her relocating from the warm, hospitable South to the gritty hustle and bustle of the East Coast, but at the last second, stopped herself.

_I’m never gonna see him again after this. No point in sharing my private business._

Did she want to see him again after this? Check up on him at least? He seemed friendly enough. A little bit stunted emotionally perhaps, but that could be due to how softly, almost innocently he spoke.

_What lies beneath isn’t sane._

She wrestled this thought away.

“-never seen one.”

“I’m sorry, what was that darlin’?”

The pet name slipped out by accident. She thought partly because she’d yet to meet a person in this city worthy of its warmness, and now that she had, it was a means of making her feel a little more at home.

“I was uh, I-I was just saying.” It was obvious he’d not been called something so sweet in a long time. “Your machete. Um, most people around here have a gun. Or a knife. I’ve never seen one in person.”

Her hand closed around the handle, feeling at ease once more.

_Get outta your head, girl. He’s just shy and tryin’ to be nice and he nearly went comatose. He ain’t tryin’ to make you feel weird._

“Yeah, a little unconventional,” she agreed. “But I grew up in a swamp area and it wasn’t that uncommon to get around with one. My daddy gave my brother and I one when we reached thirteen. Took it with me cos…guess I’m…sentimental about it.”

Her thumb stroked it fondly, though not without an undercurrent of melancholy.

Arthur seemed to detect this remarkably quick.

“I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

And from the way he voiced it, she knew he meant it.

“’S okay.” Her eyes returned to his face, offering him a reassuring smile. “Just miss how things used to be, is all. Never thought I’d need to use it for anything other than cuttin’ down cattails and reeds.”

His expression grew serious for a moment, eyes flicking down to the hand curled around it.

“Have you had to-.” He glanced in each direction of the alley, making sure their conversation remained private. “-um, use it since you came to Gotham?”

“On someone? No, thankfully. But its presence helps more than you’d think.”

He tilted his head, not following.

“You see someone pointin’ a gun,” she explained, “and you sorta know what their intentions are. They’re either gonna rob or kill ya. Maybe intimidate ya, but things been so bad lately that that’s rarely the case anymore. Same thing with a switchblade or huntin’ blade. They either mean to kill ya, rob ya, or rape ya.”

He frowned at this observation but made no move to contend it.

“But, ya see someone carryin’ around this baby.”

She couldn’t help but remove it out of its holster, feeling the slightest bit boastful about it. It was nineteen inches of charcoal-colored iron, kept sharpened on the regular, fine enough to trim facial hair. It seemed like it carried two identities. A trailblazer while she’d lived at home, and a means of survival while she resided here.

“Tough to discern intent, ya know?” She rotated it so the other side was facing. “You see someone wielding this and ya think…why they need such a big blade? Who they plannin’ to hurt? Who have they hurt? Can’t be normal. Normal people have guns or knives or bombs. Only crazy people carry machetes.”

Arthur was entranced, eyes shooting between the blade to Fiona’s face and back to the blade and back to her face.

“Its best people think you’re crazy ‘nstead of violent. Crazy is a lot less predictable.”

A high-pitched _beep! beep! beep!_ sounded from her watch, startling them both. She glanced down at the timer.

“Aw g’damn it.”

Not only had she missed lunch with her mother, but the job interview she’d set up too.

“Sorry darli-.” She bit down on her tongue. “Sorry, I gotta get goin’.”

He leaned forward so quickly she hadn’t realized one of his hands had snuck around the wrist not clutching her weapon. And despite his beat-up state, there was an impressive amount of strength in his hold.

_Impressive, not frightening. He’s done nothin’ to frighten me. I’m the one with a means of hurtin’ him._

“You’re leaving?”

She was stunned to see devastation bleed into his eyes.

“I gotta, Arthur. Missed lunch with my mama, among other things.” His face was much closer to hers now, making evading his gaze much more difficult. “You got things to do too, right? Responsibilities to get to. A job to get back to. A girl to come home to.”

He shook his head fervently.

“No girl.”

“Well, a job, and responsibilities. Your family’s probably worried sick.”

Slowly, his fingers slackened from her wrist, though not enough to remove contact.

“My mom will be. But I-I can’t tell her what happened. She’ll worry herself sick. She worries enough as it is. Gotham isn’t like it used to be.”

“That’s what my mama told me too.”

The similarity of their situation wasn’t lost on her, but she preferred not to give it too much thought.

“Will I see you again?”

His brows shot up, lips parted in the most hopeful expression.

_What lies beneath isn’t sane._

“How bout this,” she decided, sheathing her blade and pulling out the back of her coffee receipt. “You give me your number and I’ll call to make sure you’re doin’ okay. Only thing is, we need to find a writin’ utensil.”

She meant to search around for anything substantial, but Arthur took the mission upon himself. With a surprising quickness, he snatched the receipt, straightened it across a knee, and with one finger dabbing at the still wet blood beneath his nostrils, began carefully writing out his phone number with a finger nail.

Fiona would have questioned the mental coherency of such an action had she not allowed her thoughts to stray back to her mother. Despite being the one who’d pushed her to move to Gotham, the woman herself was not a matronly, homely type. Not like her father had been. The longer she entertained the idea of her impatiently waiting at a restaurant with an unpronounceable menu and equally unaffordable price, the more her dread worsened.

That isn’t to say Fiona wasn’t a perceptive woman. She certainly wasn’t a stranger to body language and tonal shifts in voice. Sensitive from a young age, she relied on such giveaways to aid her in living the best life possible.

It’s just that in this case, she opted to focus on a mother she hadn’t realized until this moment she was striving so much to please. And as a result, she neglected Arthur Fleck’s hyper focused gaze on her face and the way the pad of his middle finger brushed against her pulse and the way his breathing had altered as if he was struggling to keep his nose from diving into a bouquet.

“I’ll call ya, Arthur,” she promised, standing, not fully disengaged from her own spiraling thought process.

Arthur managed to shoot to his feet much quicker, gently tugging her up. She landed in the crook of his elbows, his hands tight and firm around her underarms.

“I look forward to hearing from you, Fiona.”

She didn’t miss his exaggerated stare, nor just how massively tall he was compared to her.

_I got his number, he doesn’t have mine. He doesn’t know where I live. By all means, this is the last time we’ll ever see each other._

“I’ll phone when I get the chance. Take care.”

When she slipped away from his hold, Arthur was at peace with it. He was somewhat confused by the part of him that didn’t want to let go. This newly covetous version that’d always lurked in the backdrop of his psyche, but he’d been able to keep at bay because of his medications.

“Fee-_onaa,” _he sang into the alleyway long after she’d departed. “My _darling_ Fiona.”

With a tune only he could hear, Arthur hummed happily as he ballroom danced with her invisible figure.


	2. Chapter 2

It took three attempts before Fiona finally reached her mother’s assistant – a solemn, work-oriented Gotham law school graduate named Sally Harding. They were on good terms with one another – sharing an age gap of just two years. When it came to interacting with her mother, however, Sally’s smiles were scarce, and she was quick to have an answer ready at any given moment.

“Hey Sal, she in at all?”

“She returned an hour ago, looked to be in a hell of a mood. I’m guessing it has to do with you?”

Fiona flinched, sinking into the sofa.

“Was s’posed to meet her for lunch and get to that interview downtown she scheduled. I got a solid excuse though. Please, let her know I wanna talk.”

“I’ll tell her, but you know how she gets.”

“I know.”

Sally’s voice eased up somewhat in response to the moroseness in hers.

“I will pass it along, Fiona. And if she forgives you…just…consider being a little more diligent. It’s lucky at all she makes the time to see you on lunch breaks, much less set up opportunities for you. You know Gotham is suffering a nasty crime spree, and if I don’t see her in her office, she’s down at the courthouse. From one person who has struggled to please her to another…her time is valuable and if you don’t take advantage of it when you can…_well_…”

The longer the statement hung in the air, the worse she felt.

“Just…tell her I’m sorry. I got held up…but I wanted to make it, I swear.”

“She’ll be elbow deep in casework at least until six. Your shop is closed on Sundays, right?”

“Right.” 

“Hang around at home tonight. If she’s in a better mood she might call.”

“Thank you, Sal. I appreciate ya.”

She couldn’t help her grimace as Sally hung up.

Her mother – Evelyn Kiehl, _nee_ Hill – was one of the most prolific lawyers Gotham City had to offer. Following a cut and dry divorce from her father (she had been six and her brother Vance eight) Evelyn returned to her home city and found work as an accountant at one of the largest law firms in Gotham. For five years she excelled at this position before elbowing her way into the District Attorney’s office as an up and coming Prosecutor.

The amount of cases she won in her first decade alone was impressive, gaining her immediate notoriety among the accused, and unwavering respect with law enforcement. Her no-nonsense attitude and hard-line stances on crime, specifically on multiple-time offenders and those attempting to plead insanity, painted her as a daunting figure in the courthouse circuit.

_And a seriously busy one. It’s a wonder at all she made the time to reach out to me about relocating. I shoulda never come here. _

Though he’d hidden it well, her father had been badly blindsided by the divorce. It was only in the final year of his life that he revealed Evelyn had given him full custody without contention. And while Fiona tried not to let this mar her view of the woman who birthed her, resentment lurked more commonly in her gut than she was comfortable admitting to.

_Can’t focus on that, I’m the one at fault. Best to shut up and ask for forgiveness when it’s time. Bright side? I helped someone today. And that feels good. _

She repeated this until the guilt dwindled and her focus shifted to her remaining obligations for the day.

Her second phone call was to Lucien Lutheford.

“Hey Lou, I got some good news.” She thumbed through the appointment book propped open on her coffee table. “Delta’s Dais called me yesterday. They had a group drop out of the lineup for this Friday. Was wonderin’ if you ‘n the Crawlers would be willin’ to fill up the remainin’ spot.”

“Shit on a stick, please tell me you said yes.”

“Just wanted to verify with ya ‘n make sure y’all got nothin’ else goin’ on.”

“Delta’s is big, Fi. Even if I had somethin’ going on, I would drop it in a heartbeat.”

“Alright, I’ll shoot them a call. You guys’ll close the set so ya don’t gotta be there til’ ten, though I’d recommend droppin’ by earlier to warm up.”

“Thank ya, Fi. You going to be at the store Monday?”

“Open to close.”

“Good, I’ll stop by and show ya the diddy I’ve been working on. Always eases me when I get your opinion first.”

She couldn’t help grinning into the receiver.

By far the kindest soul she’d met in Gotham was in the form of saxophonist Lucien Lutheford. Like her, he’d grown up in the South and headed East after his schooling was finished. Though jazz wasn’t an unpopular genre in the South, opportunities for men of color were frustratingly limiting.

Gotham’s diverse music scene and populace provided him an opportunity to co-found Lou & The Crawlers. Months of pinning jam session pamphlets inside Gotham’s underground jazz and bluegrass clubs and he finally managed to snag a fiddler, a bass guitarist, and a harmonicist.

Not until she listened to them perform for the first time in a seedy dive-bar did she realize Lucien was pioneering a fusion of genres – jazz and bluegrass – or jazzgrass, as she referred to it.

And yet, despite being gifted musicians willing to experiment, they lacked a manager’s instincts to promote themselves, or the needed connections to snag bigger clubs to play.

She had nearly begged for the opportunity to manage them and thanked her luck ever since that they’d agreed. Lou was an invaluable friend and she loved seeing them exposed to larger crowds, who often admitted they’d never heard a sound like them before.

“I’ll no doubt love it. See ya tomorrow.”

No sooner had she hung up than a bony knock rattled her door. She had a good guess as to who it could be but peeked through the peephole just to be sure.

“Eleanor,” she greeted warmly, pulling open the door. “I’m t’a guess your sons are finally gone.”

The small, gray-haired woman of seventy-three nodded, leaning forward on her walker.

“If you would not mind. Lizzie and I have been out since Monday and you know how the boys are about the habit.”

“Virginia Slim lights, right? A pack each?”

She was handed a twenty.

“You’re doing the Lord’s work, Fiona.”

_The Lord wants me to give y’all lung cancer?_

“Tough to resist lil ole ladies.”

Which was the truth. They were two persistent twin sisters just a few apartments down that seemed to know exactly what sweet words to say to gain her sympathy. It was like being Jedi-mind tricked by a pair of adorable grandmas.

“Oh, we are well aware of our influence,” was Eleanor’s mischievous reply as she hobbled her way back.

Smiling until her dimples were visible, Fiona slipped back inside to re-attach her holster.

_I can stop on the way at Moony’s Theatre and see what’ll be next for Western Wednesdays. I hope it’s a Jimmy Stewart picture, it’s been too long since I seen him in action._

***

After dropping off Eleanor and Lizzie’s cigarettes and being gifted a slice of their homemade rhubarb pie in return, Fiona could feel the exhaustion of the day start to creep in. Nine o’clock was quickly approaching and the street lamps outside slowly buzzed to life. She was again thankful she lived in a part of Gotham where street lamps not only worked, but existed to begin with. Many of her friends further north weren’t so lucky and more often times than not she felt bad that they didn’t have access to what she did.

For background noise, she threw on her TV, preferring tonight to hear people talk instead of croon or sing. A replay of Carl Sagan’s _Cosmos_ series was airing and she was content to hear him marvel over the vastness of the universe.

Reaching into her desk side drawer, she grabbed her black-framed reading glasses, busying herself with narrowing down her order list of this month’s new albums for the shop. Even in her neck of the woods, business was on the decline, forcing her to be stingier with what to bring in. No longer were all requests from customers heavily considered. Instead, she relied on degree of popularity for the album. Which…was not her favorite way of managing business, but it beat the alternative – letting go of one of her staff.

When ten o’clock was on the verge of striking, she rubbed her eyes, keeping them closed as her ears strained to listen.

But all she heard was Carl narrating a theory on multiverses, and if she really focused, a brewing turf war between five alley cats somewhere down below.

_I screwed up and I dunno…I guess I thought she’d call. Even if it was just to ‘xpress her disappointment. _

Her eyes drifted to the window of her fire escape, staring at nothing in particular.

_Ah shoot…meant to call Arthur._

A series of wide-jawed yawns dispelled this idea.

_Might seem weird if I do it the day of. Give him the wrong impression ‘bout me. Don’t wanna give him cause to think he’s got a crazy person on his hands. I’ll…call him later in the week. _

This was her last coherent thought before she rested her cheek onto a forearm and drifted off to sleep.

***

The next week kept Fiona busier than she’d been since she first moved to Gotham. A local new wave band had released their freshman album two weeks prior to widespread success, and she couldn’t go a couple of hours without a customer asking if they carried it.

“It’s on order, should be in later this week. I could set one off to the side for ya and give ya a call when it’s in.”

“Don’t bother, I’ll just hit up Rocco’s. At least they keep albums in stock.”

When his back was to her, she flipped him off. Then felt bad about it. Then flipped him off again.

_Patience is not a virtue ‘round these parts._

The manager of the gadget repair section of her store – Dale - had come down with a nasty flu, so his second in command – Mick – took over. This wouldn’t have been an issue if he didn’t step out for a cigarette every twenty minutes, leaving the restoration pile to accumulate.

When customers returned to find that their watch or Walkman or toy car wasn’t yet finished, it’s not Mick who faced the blunt of their irritation. She’d have harped on him for it, but she didn’t know how long Dale would be out of commission and seeing as they were the only two employees working the department, she reluctantly kept her tongue bit.

On the brighter side, Lou had stopped by as promised Monday afternoon and belted out the tune he’d been practicing on his tenor; helping melt away all the day’s frustration.

“I like the increase in tempo when ya think it’s gonna die off,” Fiona observed after he’d finished. “It’s gonna blend well with Bette’s harmonica solo.”

“If Curtis’s bass don’t drown it out. He’s bein’ greedy. Already opens the song and wants to finish it too.”

She neglected to tell him about Curtis’s conversation with her a few weeks back regarding potentially going solo. If their show at Delta’s was well-received, she suspected he’d rethink this decision.

“How you been anyhow? That interview your Ma set up turn out?”

“Missed it,” she admitted, trying not to frown. “She’s not talked to me since.”

Lou shrugged, dreads bobbing at the action.

“Y’er place is in music, not waitin’ hand and foot on pretentious rich folk. You’d not have made a good secretary.”

“Thanks,” she deadpanned.

He raised his arms.

“Ain’t no slander on you, Fi. You’re just not that type of girl. You lead, not follow.”

Reluctant as she was to admit it, her attitude wasn’t all too dissimilar from his. When her mother proposed the interview for a secretarial position, boasting about the increase in pay and avenues to move up, she’d lied through her teeth about being excited.

Fact of the matter was she liked owning a record shop and she much preferred the clientele – even if some of them thought she was slow because of her accent or tried to steal or occasionally prompted a not so friendly inner monologue. Much preferred it to the suits and sharp blazers rampant in her mother’s world who often looked down on the people frequenting her place. And Lou was right – jotting down messages and sitting glued to a desk, pumping out memos and tedious legal documents – it’d have bored her stiff. She needed to move around, to interact, to feed and expand her love of music.

“Just hate disappointin’ her is all.” She redirected the topic. “How you feelin’ bout Delta’s?”

“Scared as shit,” he admitted. “Venue like that and those sorta crowds ain’t afraid to boo ya off the stage.”

“I didn’t book ya at a place like that just to set ya up for failure. And at the very least they’ll be buzzed up ‘fore ya come out.”

“When in doubt, drink it out,” they recalled at the same time, fist bumping in unison.

“Reminds me- you still single?”

“Yes. 'N happy to be.”

“Mmm…ya sure?”

“Ya know not every woman is desperate to be in a relationship, right?”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but she met his stare dead on.

“You’re right, you’re right…just…you’re a good gal, Fi. Prime of your life to be datin’. And I know some good guys. Guys that aren’t afraid to let a woman take the lead.”

_I don’t wanna take the lead, I want an equal._

“’Preciate it, Lou, but I really am good. Got enough on my plate without havin’ to meet another person’s ‘xpectations. Perfectly fine lovin’ myself for the time bein’.”

He didn’t press, accepting her answer for what it was.

“After the show, Bette, Kit, me n Viv are gonna hit up Felix’s. He’s closin’ early and openin’ up the rooftop for us. Brought back some prime kush from when he was out West. I told him ‘bout the apple pie moonshine ya have and he’s interested in tryin’ it. Care to join?”

“Fuck, _yes_,” she stressed, relieved to have something to look forward to. “Haven’t smoked in ages.”

“Swell soundin’, I’ll see ya Friday.”

Their conversation boosted her through the rest of the week, though not without a few more hiccups.

Namely, the second register at the front of the store her co-worker Josie christened El Diablo. Half the time it worked without fault, luring you into a false sense of security, and the other half – more often times than not when they had a lineup – it sputtered and beeped until a series of solid smacks against it caused it to reboot.

Dale had taken a peek inside a month prior and admitted it was on its deathbed. She didn’t have the money to shell out for a new one, so for the moment, she considered it a necessary evil. Even though the headaches it sparked were decidedly _unnecessary_.

Thursday morning, she was going through the inventory of newly delivered albums and noticed something that instantly sparked a headache. As Josie and Reggie stocked, Fiona got on the phone with their deliverer.

“Donnie, I ordered six cases of Twin Season’s _Fever Rush_ but I ain’t seein’ it. Y’all forget to deliver extra boxes?”

“Sorry sweets.” She rolled her eyes. “Rocco’s ordered the last of what we had before your order came in. Should have a new shipment in in a couple of months.”

“Couple of months? They’re the biggest thing in the country _right now_. No one’s gonna care in a couple ‘a months when there’ll be a new band to fuss over.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You couldn’t have at least given me a call to let me know y’all were out?”

“Someone was supposed to.” He was shuffling around, the blare of car horns faint. “Listen, I just do deliveries, I don’t handle what’s outside my pay grade. Why do shit they won’t pay me for, you know?”

She slammed the receiver down.

Friday, thankfully, flew by quicker than any of the week days combined. Though a few customers were disappointed to learn they wouldn’t be carrying _Fever Rush_, there was a renewing interest in big band and ragtime that she’d thankfully capitalized on a month earlier. In large she thought this was due to the success of a recent mobster film set in the 1920’s that’d done well with audiences, influencing perhaps, a nostalgia for older genres.

By the time she closed shop at eight her mood was in healthy shape and her excitement level was building.

She showered up as quick as she could and pinned her drying strands into a 1940’s updo, pulling and twisting back her side-swept bang into a small puff. She let two strands hang down beside her cheeks so as not to appear too serious.

Normally when she went to see Lou & The Crawlers perform, her get up wasn’t all too different from what she wore to work: A band t-shirt or one displaying the name of a local musical instrument store, faded pale blue jeans or black leather pants, the occasional flannel or bomber jacket tied off at her waist, topped off with her cowboy boots that she’d never quite been able to get all the manure and scuffing out of.

Her cowboy boots, she decided, weren’t going anywhere. The few who knew her close insisted they were her trademark, and she never felt the need to dispute it.

Delta’s Dais – a blues lounge located a couple of blocks from Gotham’s art district - could house at a maximum eighty people. It wasn’t a claustrophobic venue where you stood shoulder to shoulder, nor a seedy one where dress code was obsolete. If you went, you made an effort to look decent. And though she didn’t expect any of the Crawlers to be immaculately groomed; as their manager, she figured it couldn’t hurt to make an effort.

After a fifteen-minute debate in which Link Wray & His Ray Men lent their background support, she decided on a knee length, white cotton dress with Juliet sleeves and a somewhat tantalizing V-neck (for her at least) showing off the swell of her bust. A black leather jacket and fire-engine red lipstick were the final ingredients to her ensemble.

She strapped the holster underneath the dress, tight around her hip, and poured into a mini mason jar, some of the apple pie moonshine that’d made the trip East with her. For good luck, she took a few sips from it.

_Here’s t’a a successful night and many, many more t’a come._

***

They were twelve shots and three joints in, crowded around a patio table atop the building housing Felix’s bar, when Lou posed a question to the group of five.

“Alright y’all,” he drawled, accent deepening the further from sobriety he strayed, “if money weren’t an issue, what would y’all invent?”

Fiona leaned back, eyes traveling up to the handful of stars visible amongst Gotham’s lights. Her brain was fuzzy, her body pleasantly warm and tingly despite the chill breeze, and each time she thought of something remotely amusing, she giggled into her palm, cheeks reddening beyond recognition.

From the moment she stepped into Delta’s a few hours earlier, she knew she was in for a good night ahead of her. True to word, most of the patrons had been through a few drinks, and upon Lou & the Crawlers’ introduction, clapped and cheered vigorously, no doubt fueled by the high-energy of the groups prior.

She had a view of them kitty corner from the front of the stage, content to observe from behind a group of college kids. And yet somehow, Lou still managed to find her in the crowd, shooting her a cheeky wink as he brought the reed to his mouth.

What followed was nothing short of the best performance their group had produced yet. It was obvious they’d taken as much time as possible to fine tune their set list, everyone hitting their mark, rhythm from their instruments blending seamlessly until Lou and Bette ended the set with a heart-stomping marriage of franticness that tapered off to a soft decrescendo.

Not that they weren’t capable of this level of discipline before, but more often times than not, due perhaps to their typical small crowd size, they would rehearse only a couple of times before improvising the main performance.

Tonight, they were polished, they were confident, and they played until she joined the standing ovation, eyes watering slightly as her hands throbbed from applause.

_If only Ma could see this. _

Following a brief conversation with Delta’s owner Pat, who extended an invitation to come back, she brought each member of the Crawlers into a lung crushing hug, beaming hard enough to make her lips hurt. She was so proud of them but didn’t quite have the words to express it; opting instead to remain silent as they basked in the afterglow of their performance.

Not long after they said their goodbyes, she, Lou, and Bette hopped onto a subway and ventured east to Felix’s. By the time they arrived, Viv and Kit, an acoustic folk duo in their mid-thirties, were pulling up in a cab. She’d met them from her store shortly after she’d become the owner and with their frequent stop-by’s usually leading to a purchase, and invites to hang out and jam, they became one of the few people whose album requests were always first priority.

Felix – an alcoholic who dubbed himself a "liquor enthusiast" – owned a rowdy bar in a nicer part of Gotham called _The Stubbed Toe_. She knew him through Lou who credited Felix as his oldest friend and one of the first to offer him playing time when he first got to the city.

He took to her moonshine very, very well, and she to his strain Agent Chaos.

“We actually discussed this,” Viv started, moving off Kit’s shoulder excitedly. “Self-driving car! We need _way_ more inventions for the drinkers of the world.”

“Here here,” Kit and Felix chipped in, clinking bottles.

Everyone’s gaze fell to Bette next, but she was soundlessly snoozing, mouth hung open, a sliver of drool hanging from the corner of her lip.

“Should we wake her up?” Kit asked.

Before anyone could answer, a nearby pigeon who’d been a silent participant in their conversation, took flight, releasing a stream of droppings in its wake. It was too late for any of them to do anything but watch as the droppings landed with a succession of _splats!_ into Bette’s parted mouth.

“Holy shit,” Felix guffawed, body rocking with laughter. “Ahhhh holy shit ahahaha.”

Kit and Viv looked horrified, Lou couldn’t stop staring, his own mouth dropped open, and Fiona navigated between a mixture of all their reactions.

Amazingly, Bette slept on, subconsciously swallowing and repositioning herself into a more comfortable position.

When Felix’s laughter finally died out, Lou said, “We don’t ever tell her ‘bout this, got it?”

No one dared disagree.

“Right,” Felix noted, leaning back in his chair. “I've been rolling around with this idea of a chicken-proof chicken suit."

"Chicken-proof _chicken suit_?" Fiona repeated, glancing at Lou who met her equally confused gaze.

"Hear me out," he went on, waving away their bewilderment. "How many times have you gotten inside a chicken suit and ended up being pecked by some chickens?"

"Zero," Lou confirmed.

Kit and Viv nodded in agreement.

"You are telling me I'm the only motherfucker who's been pecked by some chickens in a chicken suit?" He shook his head vehemently, pausing briefly to gulp down the rest of his beer. "I want the mayor of Gotham on this! City-wide census of who's been pecked by chickens in a chicken suit. Once I meet others, I'll introduce the chicken-proof chicken suit and become a m-millionaire. Just you watch."

Fiona imagined herself in a chicken suit getting pecked by some chickens.

_I’ll fry ya bastards up!_

Her snort evolved into a tummy aching chuckle. One knee jolted up and struck the table, but she laughed on, too dazed to feel any pain.

When her amusement subsided, Lou suggested, "Go t’a Thomas Wayne immediately wit’ that idea."

Felix puffed out his chest. "I think I will. God knows the biggest pecker of all would love it.”

This prompted another round of laughter.

“What about you, Lou?” Fiona tried, struggling to recall how they’d gotten onto this subject. “One invention.”

“A mouth guard that protects ya from gettin’ bird shit in ya mouth.”

She hid her face behind her hand, chest quaking from the effort not to laugh.

“I didn’t think before tonight that needed to be an invention,” Viv input. “I’d buy it.”

“But not a chicken-proof chicken suit?” Felix contended, shaking his head. “After I sell my stock to Thomas Wayne, I’mma ride by all your houses in a Lamborghini full of strippers and coke. Give you guys a nice little gift.”

He stuck up both his middle fingers, kissed the tips, and offered them to each member of the table, save for Bette.

“Aw you are too kind,” Kit said, placing a hand on his chest in mock hurt. “Got to make up for that small pecker between your legs, aye?”

“Fuck all of you.”

“A little ambitious don’t you think?”

“Fuck no, I know you’d suck my dick for ten dollars.”

“Jokes on you motherfucker, I’d suck your dick for fifty cents.”

Laughter drowned out whatever Felix meant to respond with.

Fiona’s gaze strayed up again, cheeks on fire. Their voices drifted in and out, and so did her focus on anything other than the stars sparkling above.

All she knew in that moment was an endless bliss and the warmth that comes from loving and being loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first chapter just kind of winging it, no real direction in mind. Now that I have a good idea where this is going, I'll mention now: shit's gonna get dark. Rating will go up, warnings will come into effect, etcetera etcetera and so forth. It will probably happen after the next three or so chapters, but i'll be sure to reiterate this warning before things get messy so you can jump ship if you are easily triggered or were expecting a fluffy resolution. 
> 
> Other than that, a hundred apologies for the blocks of exposition. Currently relearning how to write. 
> 
> A thousand and one thank yous to everyone who left a comment and offered kudos...y'all the real MVP's, and are the fuel to my fire. I saw the film again, so many new nuances to notice - film is set in 1981 I learned - and my love for Joaquin's performance (I'm joaquin on sunshine woah oh, and doesn't it feel good, yeah!) is just...unreal. I've not been so crazy about an actor's performance in a long long time. He's so method, so attentive to the smallest details...I think that's a core of what has made this film so popular, and his portrayal so intriguing and difficult to look away from. If he doesn't win all the awards, I'm mailing out some horse heads a la Godfather.


	3. Chapter 3

“No loss in my book,” Reggie declared with a shrug. “We’ve known shit’s been bad for months. Police never took notice. But three trust fund kids get shot and suddenly they’re deciding to do something? GPD can get bent.”

Josie shook her head.

“How can you be so crass? Being rich doesn’t excuse you from being human.”

“Actually, it does. If you’re not giving to charity or helping shorten the wealth gap between rich and poor, I could care less if someone guns you down.”

Frowning, Josie turned to Fiona.

“What do you think? Please tell me you’ve got more of a heart than Reg.”

Fiona continued pricing the posters, half lost in thought, half tuned into their conversation.

Since Friday night, Gotham had been abuzz with the subway murders of three Wall Street stockbrokers, allegedly by some sort of psychotic clown. She’d have found the description of the assailant more comical had the murders not taken place so close to the railway near Felix’s. She was again thankful he’d let them all crash there. Just as easily, it could have been her riding home, receiving a bullet to the head.

_Them bein’ rich…seems intentional that they’d be targeted._

“Fiona?”

She shook her head.

“Reg is right in that it should be y’er duty t’a help the less fortunate. Hoardin’ money like that…it ain’t fair.”

Reggie crossed his arms smugly.

“Jos is right in that it doesn’t ‘xcuse gunnin’ down those who don’t help. Selfish as it may be, they worked for that money, and it’s not on us to decide whether they deserve to die if they don’t share it.”

“Thank you.”

“What a load of shit,” Reggie spat.

She met his eyes.

“This load of shit also writes y’er paychecks, so I’d think real careful on what ya wanna say next.”

He sighed in frustration.

“Fine, but you have to admit Thomas Wayne’s interview was whack,” he pointed out. “If you’re not making six figures, you’re a clown? If you’re not sitting in a fancy ass skyscraper, you’re a clown?”

“I agree. He’s tone-deaf and he’d make a lousy mayor.”

Reggie seemed satisfied with this.

Though she didn’t show it, she felt all sortsa ways about the murder. Disturbed no doubt, but upon hearing who had done it, she was instantly reminded of Arthur. And not long after, guilt flooded her. Almost two full weeks had passed since she’d promised to call him and between the chaos at the store and the Crawlers debut at Delta’s, not to mention the continued lack of communication from her mother; and calling him had simply slipped her mind.

When she finally remembered, she wished she hadn’t.

_I’m good on keepin’ my promises, why’d I have to go ‘an break this one?_

There was still time to call, but she worried too long had passed and that he’d be sore with her once she did.

_Good lord just give ‘im a call and explain y’erself._

_Oh yes ‘cos that worked just ‘xcellent with Ma._

That was another call she was hesitant on making. Nearly two weeks of silence had her emotions shifting from embarrassment to disappointment to guilt to borderline agitation. It’s not like she’d thrown a kitten down a well. One interview missed wasn’t the end of the world!

_And lunch. Ya missed lunch too._

“Fuck,” she released, rubbing her temples. “I need a vacation.”

She closed shop feeling just as conflicted as she’d been at the beginning of the day.

So, it came as no surprise that her first order of business upon getting home, other than throwing on some Miles Davis, was to break open the last fifth of bourbon she had. Six months of perusing Gotham’s bar scene and she’d yet to taste a single brand that even came close to being as smooth or well-aged.

_Damn shame. They could learn a thing or two from my neck of the woods._

As a chorus of trumpets rang out, Fiona slowly swung her hips back and forth, occasionally sipping from her glass. Losing herself to the music, her eyes closed. Drums skedaddled up her spine, saxophones grazed her shoulders, and she swayed and sashayed to it all, letting Miles guide her around the living room.

_KNOCK KNOCK_

She stilled, eyes shooting to the door.

When she failed to move, the knocking was repeated, louder this time.

_Damn it all._

Setting down her glass on the kitchen counter, Fiona slipped into a pair of silk pajama bottoms. She didn’t make it a habit of answering the door in only underwear and a t-shirt and she wasn’t about to start now, no matter how dizzy and weightless she felt.

All the air nearly left her lungs when she peeked through the peephole.

Smoothing out her shirt and running a hand through her hair, Fiona released a nervous breath before opening the door.

Evelyn Kiehl physically was the opposite of her daughter in nearly every way. Standing at an imposing five foot ten – heels excluded – she had high, pronounced cheekbones, piercing almond-shaped eyes, and salt and pepper hair that rarely existed outside a tight bun just above the nape of her neck, this time being no exception. Not one to trouble herself with makeup, stress lines were most visible at the corners of her eyes, aiding in heightening the severity of her features.

Tonight, a black peacoat covered her work attire, and with her she carried a manila handbag hung firmly over the crook of her elbow. Peccary, black leather gloves sheltered her hands from view.

“Ma,” Fiona stated dumbly. “I-come in.”

Evelyn entered wordlessly, and only too late did Fiona realize Miles was still spewing out a storm. She sprinted to the record player, big toe striking the side of a chair leg on the way.

_Fuckin’ nuts on a bagel._

She stopped the record, fighting the urge to caress her foot and rub the sensitivity from it.

A quick scan around the living room made her thankful she thought to pick up this morning.

Evelyn made no move to lower her handbag nor remove her coat, alerting Fiona this rendezvous would be brief.

“Sally told me you had an explanation for why you missed your interview.”

Fiona nodded.

“There were some rotten kids beatin’ the shi-beatin’ the heck out of a man. He looked downright awful by the time they were through with him. No one was helpin’, so I did.”

Her stomach was in knots despite having rehearsed this answer more times than she could count.

“I see.”

The two words offered no hint as to what she thought.

“I am so sorry,” she said, tugging on her index and middle finger. “By the time I got him up, it was too late to get downtown. I’m not ungrateful, I swear-I just-it was bad timin’.”

She lowered her head, too nervous to meet her eyes.

“Well…you will be relieved to know I did not come by to mince words or hold you accountable for a lapse in judgment.”

_Lapse in judgment?_

Fiona’s head shot up, the blue in her eyes darkening to a cobalt.

“As inconvenient as your absence was,” she continued, glancing at the liquor bottle resting on her coffee table, “I have managed to pull some strings. The secretary position is yours. All you need to do is show up Monday morning at eight o’clock. I trust this time around there will be no more men in need of rescue from…_children_.”

She worked on keeping her breathing calm.

“I-thank you. That’s…that’s kind of you. But I…I like it at the store. Money could be better, sure, but bein’ there gives me purpose. I…wouldn’t do well in your world.”

Not until she voiced it did she realize how necessary it’d been to get off her chest.

Sadly, Evelyn didn’t appear as impressed with the revelation. Her eyes narrowed the same way they did when Sally didn’t have a quick enough answer for her.

“That wasn’t a request. You will take this position, or I will no longer be helping you with rent.”

To help with the transition to Gotham and aid in building up her bank account, she had offered to pay half of her monthly rent for the first year. It was unquestionably one of the more appealing parts of moving and allowed Fiona to put more effort into bulking up her store.

“I’m not stoppin’ you,” shot out of her mouth so fast she didn’t think twice about it. “If I gotta, I’ll move somewhere cheaper. Move in with friends. This apartment is nice to have, but I don’t _need_ it.”

Evelyn’s composure began to crumble.

“Fiona,” she warned, setting her handbag down on the sofa, “you are no longer a child. A barely afloat business will not sustain you in the long run. I don’t understand why you are choosing to fight me on this.”

“I’m not fightin’ ya,” she maintained, trying not to give in to anger. “I am tellin’ ya that I am happy where I’m at and that…I want ya to be happy for me too.”

“Happy for you?” Her sharp laugh was like a slice to the Achilles. “My daughter works at a failing record store that barely makes enough to keep product in stock. She hangs around drinkers and drug users and God knows what else. She relies on a hardware tool for safety because she cannot afford to move to a safer part of the city, and at this rate, never will. Stop me if I am missing something, but where in all this am _I_ expected to be happy for you?”

Fiona’s bottom lip trembled. She could feel the bourbon simmering in her veins.

“Why the hell did ya even ask me t’a come live here?” she blurted. “I’d have been just fine stayin’ there. Daddy left me the house. I’d ‘ave made it my own over time.”

“I wanted you to make something of yourself. To have access to a life beyond what was possible for me at your age. Cleary, I was mistaken.”

“Clearly, you were.”

Evelyn scowled, the lines around her mouth sinking in further. Her cheekbones looked like they wanted to claw out of her skin.

“Seeing as we agree on this, you won’t mind my booking you a flight back.” Her attention abruptly turned to her handbag. She just barely refrained from snatching it up. “Perhaps I will give your brother a call. I doubt he will be as ungrateful as you have been.”

It felt like someone kicked her in the stomach with a steel toed boot.

“Believe this mama, he hates you just as much as I do. He hates me for even speakin’ to ya, much less movin’ across the country to be with ya.”

She froze.

“Daddy told me.” She stomped forward, trying to control the shaking in her hands. “You didn’t even bother fightin’ for us. Thank goodness ya get recognized in Gotham for bein’ a good lawyer ‘nstead of a good mother.”

“Fi-.”

“NO,” she bellowed, tears building as her breathing grew hysterical. “Ya didn’t fight for us. Ya left us t’a grow up without ya while ya fucked off t’a Gotham to start a new life.”

The tears were coming full force now; she did nothing to halt their descent.

“You…you don’t get to call me ungrateful. N-not when I can barely look at ya without wantin’ to spit.” She sucked in a much-needed breath, wiping at her eyes. “I wish I’d-a listened to Vance. Meetin’ ya was the biggest mistake of my life.”

Despite her eyes being saturated with tears, Fiona was undeterred in maintaining Evelyn’s gaze. A gaze that for once in a very long time, sought a diversion elsewhere.

“Drinker like your father,” she observed, staring at the coffee table. “Can’t get a decent glass of bourbon in this city, I’ll give you that.”

When she didn’t speak further, Fiona straightened up, cheeks slowly returning to their normal hue.

“Get the fuck outta my apartment and don’t come back.”

Evelyn pursed her lips. An emotion passed her eyes that temporarily made her regret being so coarse.

_Perhaps I will give your brother a call. I doubt he will be as ungrateful as you have been._

“Now,” she reiterated.

Evelyn tightened her grip around her purse handle and stalked to the door.

Before she could exit, Fiona spoke.

“Ever since I’ve gotten here, it’s felt like you been punishin’ me for somethin’.”

She stared at her taut back, awaiting a response.

“What did I do?”

Without a word or look back, Evelyn opened the door and exited.

Fiona wished she could say she handled the aftermath of the encounter gracefully, but this simply wasn’t the case. She grabbed the fifth of bourbon and went to work on numbing the hurt.

And boy did she ever hurt. It was like the worst possible case scenario she could envision, happened, and because she normally had a positive attitude about how things would turn out, the pain of this fruition was that much fiercer.

By quarter after eleven, she’d worked through half of the bottle, weaving between numbness and being at the mercy of her wallowing emotions.

_I shouldn’t-a snapped. She’s gonna hate me._

_No, I was defendin’ myself._

_If I coulda just held my tongue._

_She didn’t have a decent answer!_

_She-._

“God,” she murmured, burying her face into her hands. A few stray tears leaked out, but nothing like she experienced earlier.

_She didn’t even hear me when I told her I helped a beaten man._

Her hands dropped abruptly.

_Motherfuckin’ shit! Arthur!_

She had to call him. Not think about it, not promise to do so at a later time- she had to call him _now_. Before she forgot. Before her courage dissolved. Before life got in the way again.

She tried standing, but such a task wasn’t in the immediate forecast. Thankfully, her sofa caught her freefalling form. She attempted three more times to stand before successfully finding balance.

_Don’t wanna be like this when I phone. Self-pityin’ ‘n sobbin’._

Before she reached her phone, Fiona made a pit stop at her record collection. The nearly hundred and fifty records sat housed in a four shelf-unit on wheels, accessible by two crystal clear glass doors.

_Who always gets me t’a my happy place? Mmm Sly and the Family Stone? Naw. Bee Gees? Naw. Dead Kennedys? Maybe if I wanna overthrow the government._

Her fingers paused their perusal upon locating _Presenting the Fabulous Ronettes Featuring Veronica._

_Fuckin’ hopeless romantic I am…they make me feel like I could fall in love. I like that feelin’._

She popped the vinyl in, lowering the volume so she could listen to it comfortably while maintaining a conversation.

** _The night we met I knew I needed you so  
And if I had the chance I’d never let you go_ **

_Ah shit…what’d I do with his number?_

She was glued to the carpet for five minutes, trying to retrace her steps after she’d gotten home almost two Sundays ago.

_I took it out ‘fore I did laundry. I think. I think? Yes. Stored it somewhere. Where’d one store phone numbers?_

She nearly laughed at her own stupidity. Scratch that, she did laugh.

With cautious steps, she ambled to her table and snatched the address book. She opened the front and back covers and began shaking it back and forth. Not long after, a wrinkled receipt floated out.

_Bingo!_

While she was within distance, one hand pawed at the light switch, throwing the room into darkness save for a single lamp beside the telephone.

With a half walk, half stagger, she headed off in the direction of the sofa, receipt gripped tightly. Upon arrival, she tossed a thick-feathered pillow at the corner of one the arms and dropped into it. The bottle of bourbon sitting on the floor was relocated to in between her thigh. One hand grabbed the receiver off the table while the other briefly struggled to make out the numbers.

She made three attempts at dialing, none of which were successful.

_Jus’….focus. Focus pocus._

When a ringing finally greeted her ears, she discarded the receipt onto the table, leaning back into the pillow and cushions, thumb stroking the mouth of the bottle.

Just when she thought no one would pick up, a tentative voice answered.

“Hello?”

She couldn’t believe how much relief spread through her at hearing his voice. It’d been long overdue, and she felt like such a fool for not having done it sooner. A fool and a bad person.

“Um, hi. This be Arthur Fleck’s residence by chance?” she asked, doing her best not to slur her words.

Dead silence.

“I’m sorry, musta dialed the wrong-.”

“Fiona?”

She beamed into the dark room, pulling the receiver closer.

“Hey darlin’,” she greeted. “I owe ya the world’s biggest apology for not havin’ called sooner. Life’s been…it’s been…life is like…it’s been…hectic. I’ll ‘xplain further if ya let me, but firstly…how ya doin’? How ya feelin’? Have the bruises healed? How’s y’er nose? Are ya well?”

The faintest sound of chuckling could be heard.

_Chucklin’? Thought he could only do that uncontrollable laugh thing._

“Are you drunk, Fiona?”

She shrugged sheepishly.

“Umm…I’m certainly not sober.”

His chuckle was stronger.

“Long story,” she explained. “Ma stopped by and I been…unwell since.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

She made to but stopped herself.

“Naw naw naw, I asked my questions first. Y’er t’a gimme a physical wellness report, ASAP.”

“Oh, feisty girl, are we?”

“When the mood strikes.”

She could hear his smile through the phone.

“The bruises are all healed. My nose doesn’t look broken anymore. You…you did a good job. I feel…good. Better than I have in a long time.”

Her eyebrows rose at this.

_Does gettin’ the shit beat outta ya do that? If so, sign me up._

“I’m so relieved t’a hear,” she said. “Ya were in such rough shape ‘n…fuck, if I could get my hands on those shits again I’d ah…”

When she didn’t answer, Arthur pitched in.

“Hug them and hold their hand?”

“Ya bein’ sarcastic wit’ me Mr. Fleck? I’ll have ya know I own a machete.”

“You do. And I am. Should I be worried you’ll use it on me?”

Her toes curled up and she didn’t immediately understand why.

_He’s…teasin’ me. Last time he could barely make eye contact with me. And now he’s playful and it’s tough not to…_

“No,” she said, trying to return the topic to safer waters. “Never.”

“I’m glad.”

They were both silent.

“Well,” she trailed off, feeling awkward suddenly, “I just wanted t’a check in and say sorry it didn’t happen sooner. I’m so glad y’er feelin’ better. It was nice hearin’ from y-.”

“You said life has been hectic for you,” he interrupted, trying to hide the desperation in his voice. Either way, Fiona was too intoxicated to detect it. “If you want to talk about it, I have all the time in the world to listen.”

_Do I wanna talk ‘bout it? He’s a stranger…kinda. Maybe the best sorta person to talk to._

“Business has been…not great,” she admitted, pausing to take a gulp from the bottle. “I own a record shop ‘n I got a thousand things t’a fix ‘n do ‘n I just…I’m gettin’ buried by my competitors. My Ma stopped by ‘n told me I owned a failin’ store ‘n as pissed as I was in the moment…I’m ‘fraid she’s gonna be right.”

She clutched the bottle tighter to her. This had been her most prominent fear since arriving in Gotham. The store closing and having to rely on her mother’s aid. The humiliation of such a situation....

“You own a record shop?”

He sounded pleasantly surprised.

“I do. ‘Plied there and became manager within a month. Owner within two. The old one wanted t’a retire ‘n I figured the place could use a lil’ updatin’. We also fix gadgets ‘n gizmos, so if ya got some sorta electronic givin’ ya a headache, stop on by.”

“What’s the name?”

“Boone’s Record Emporium. We’re ‘n the Kubrick District ‘bout a half mile from the Sprang.”

He didn’t respond right away, though she swore she could faintly hear the sound of scribbling.

“For as upbeat as I try to be…I feel like…a failure,” she confessed, taking another sip. “My mama told me she’s gonna book me a flight back home ‘cos I didn’t end up meetin’ her ‘xpectations. Think it might be best t’a take ‘er up on the offer.”

“_NO_.”

She jumped a little, startled by the intensity of his tone.

“Fiona…you…you can’t leave,” he followed up, a little softer. “Even if your business fails, you tried. You tried your best to make it somewhere worth coming to. And…from what I’ve met of you…I can only imagine you do your best to make others feel welcome. Even if it fails…it’s not the end. You can always try again.”

Snuggling further into the pillow, Fiona blinked back tears.

“I-.” She choked on the words intending to leave her. “Thank you, Arthur. That…means a lot.”

“You mean a lot to…_others_,” he finished delicately. “This...city needs you. I-just think you shouldn’t let your mother decide what you want to make out of this life. My mother…she doesn’t think I’m funny enough to be a comedian. But I love making others laugh. Sometimes, passion is more important than anything else.”

She found herself nodding as if they were having this conversation on her sofa.

“Um…ya wanna be a comedian?” she said. “Care t’a tell me a joke?”

“I…I’m not…it’s not…polished,” he offered lamely.

“Well…I’ll help ya get it there. Try me. I like a good joke.”

He sucked in a breath. The shuffling of pages could be heard.

“O-okay. Um…what…what do you call a mime having a stroke?”

Her brows flew together in thought.

“I dunno.”

“Same thing you would any other day…entertainment.”

The punchline didn’t register right away, but when it did, she couldn’t stop the surprised chuckle from bubbling out of her throat. The longer she thought about the punchline, the less tame her chuckle got.

“Darlin’,” she giggled, “that’s dark. Never woulda suspected ya of that type ‘a humor.”

“Did you like it?”

“I did. Difficult t’a get by in this life without findin’ sad things funny. Sometimes, I laugh, ‘therwise I’ll cry, ya know?”

“Yes, I know.” He was quiet for a moment. “I-I’m so glad you called, Fiona. I was really worried I wouldn’t hear from you again.”

Her chest tightened.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner. On top of ownin’ a store, I manage a band that…I won’t lie, if they keep churnin’ out music like they done this last time, I see them gettin’…big. ‘N they deserve it.”

“You manage a band?”

“Ya sound surprised. ‘M I s’pposed t’a be barefoot ‘n pregnant at home, waitin’ for my man t’a get back?”

“No, no I-I- just-.”

His laugh was tight and uncomfortable.

“Hey, hey, ‘s alright darlin’ I’m just givin’ ya hard time.”

“Oh…oh good. Um, what’s the band’s name?”

“Lou & the Crawlers.”

“And they’re…good?”

“’M a lil biased, but yes, they’re good. Got the potential t’a be great, Lou’s just gotta…lead them a lil. ‘Ncourage them. Be the leader I always knew he could be.”

When he didn’t respond for half a minute, Fiona cocked her head.

“Ya still there?”

“Yes. I-I hope this isn’t intrusive to ask, but are you and Lou…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but even in her muddled state she picked up on the insinuation.

“Naw, we’re just two peas ‘n a pod. He’s my best friend.”

Again, he was quiet.

“You perform your stand-up at all?” she tried, finishing off the last of the bottle before sliding down the pillow until she was on her back.

“I had a performance two days ago. It went really well.”

“Ah shucks, shame I missed it. Ya got ‘nother one comin’ up?”

“No…but I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.”

“Swell, thanks Arthur.”

What little of the ceiling she could see from the lamp, swam in and out of focus. She felt like she were adrift at sea, floating on her back, unconcerned as to how violent the waves were. She’d float on, just as she’d always done.

“-is so unkind.”

“Mm?” Her eyes slid closed. “What was that darlin’?”

“I was just saying…for someone as kind as you are, I’m surprised your mother is so unkind.”

Her eyes reluctantly re-opened.

“She…has her nice moments. Occasionally. _Sometimes_.”

“Does she…hurt you?”

It took a bit for her to comprehend what he was implying.

“Naw, nothin’ like that. I ain’t never been hit by neither of my parents, thank goodness. She just…she don’t like it that I don’t got the same ‘spirations as she does, I think. When she convinced me t’a move ‘ere, she thought I’d follow in ‘er footsteps ‘n become a big lawyer like her.”

“Your mother is a lawyer?”

“Mhm. Evelyn Kiehl, prosecutor ‘xtrarodinaire. ‘Sppose I’m grateful I never been against her in court.”

She giggled at this, then grimaced, then giggled again. Yeah, she probably had it pretty easy compared to her opponents.

“Why would she invite you to live here when she treats you the way she does?”

There was a simmering frustration in his voice that made her appreciative for it. Lou knew how her mother could be, but not nearly as bad as what she was divulging to Arthur. It was so damn cathartic to discuss.

“I asked her that tonight. Didn’t ‘ave any answer. I mean…’fter givin’ full custody to our Pa ya’d think she wants nothin’ else t’a do with us.” She could feel a tremble in her bottom lip; her teeth clamped down to stop it. “She…gave up on me once. ‘N she’s given up on me again. And…Arthur…it hurts more than I can ‘xpress.”

A resurgence of tears blinded her, and she covered her mouth with a hand to deafen the sob wanting to fly out.

“Sorry,” she murmured, releasing a shaky breath. “Promised myself I wasn’t gonna…be a mess when I talked to ya. Failed at that too, huh?”

“Hey, hey,” Arthur soothed, the pain in his own voice palpable, “you are not a failure, Fiona. You are…you are good and precious and pure-hearted. You…have been hurt, but you don’t hurt others. I…when you helped me in that alley…I didn’t think people like you existed anymore in Gotham. You are so good and I…I want more than anything to make you see that. Because…if you did, you would never take your mother seriously again. She…she is hardened, like the rest of them. She no longer has the heart you do. And maybe…that’s part of why she dislikes you. You are what she could never be.”

Fiona blushed and tingled at the declaration. His words were so nurturing, like an embrace from someone that viewed her without fault.

“Arthur…you are so…you are so sweet, darlin’. So, so sweet.”

They were both content with the quietness that followed. It allowed them to gather their emotional bearings.

“Darlin’,” she mused, fingertips tracing circles around her bellybutton, “how ya not ‘ave a girl? Y’er sweet, y’er funny, and tho most of ya was covered up, from what I seen, ya weren’t half-bad lookin’.”

She didn’t need to see his face to know she’d taken him off guard with the comment.

_He’s made me feel so good ‘bout myself. Gotta return the favor._

“Hmm?” she pestered, the corner of a lip curling into a crooked grin. “I know y’er shy. But…some gals find that ‘ndearin’.”

“Do you?”

She was momentarily at a loss for words.

“Depends, I s’ppose,” she said carefully. “If confidence can co-exist with it, I ain’t mind. Cos ‘therwise…it’s just…a broken person. ‘N I don’t wanna fix people ‘nymore. Help ‘em, care for ‘em, ‘ncourage ‘em…I’ll do that…but…it’s on ya to fix ya.”

He grew quiet again.

“Hope I didn’t make ya feel uncomfortable. Last thing I wanna do.”

“You haven’t, Fiona, I promise. You’ve just made me…think.” She could hear the rearrangement of fabric. “I guess…I’ve not had a girl look at me twice. And…this is going to sound silly so please…don’t laugh.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

“I…want to feel something…special. What…Frank Sinatra sings about.”

She pulled the receiver away from her mouth and brought it to her chest. She wanted to cry again because it’d been so long since she’d heard something so…genuine.

The Ronettes were still doo-wopping softly in the background, the dull of the city so far away she could forget where she was for a moment.

Her ears perked up when Arthur spoke again, distant and near at the same time.

“I can hear your heart beating.”

She brought the phone back up to hear ear.

“Sorry.”

“No…it’s okay. I…like hearing it.”

Her thighs rubbed together at the tenderness in his tone. Between her drunken state and his equally intoxicating words, she could feel herself slowly getting wet.

“I like y’er voice, Arthur,” she admitted, biting her lip. “Y’er so soft spoken, but ya have so much t’a say. Nice ‘n low ‘n soothing.”

Had she been in a more sober state, she’d have left it at that.

But her hormones were running wild, and she cheered on their liberation.

The hand not gripping the receiver, slowly traveled across her tummy, dipped beneath her pajama bottoms, and lingered near the band of her underwear.

“Fiona…do you know what you’re doing to me?”

His voice sounded strained.

“No. Tell me.”

He groaned like something was troubling him.

“Sweet girl,” he murmured. “Such a sweet, sweet girl. I…I had a hard time paying attention to what you were saying. I couldn’t stop…looking at you.”

A shiver coursed through her. She slid her fingers into her underwear, index and middle sinking into her slit.

“Mmm, ‘n what did ya think ‘bout me, darlin’?”

“That…you were beautiful. Your hair…warm and gold. Your eyes…I wanted to lose myself in them. You…were small and soft and I just…I wanted to wrap you up and keep you safe…like you did me.”

No entity alive could have prevented her moan. Her fingers pushed down on her clit, thighs shaking.

“Are-are you okay?”

Her eyes briefly popped open and she almost giggled at his worry. It appeared he was gravely misinterpreting the conversation. She thought it best to leave him nonethewiser, but he’d done such a good job listening to her and making her feel better. She wanted him to know how much she appreciated his attention and care.

“I am darlin’,” she promised. “Just uh…relievin’ myself is all.”

She hoped he’d understand. Although deeply drunk, she wasn’t immune to all forms of embarrassment.

“You’re…_touching yourself_?”

“Mhm…you’ve made me feel so good, tough not to.” She bit down on her lip. “Ya touchin’ y’erself too?”

“I-.”

She wondered briefly if she completely misread his own attraction to her.

“I was…grabbing myself through…my…pants.”

“Let ‘em free, darlin’. Wrap y’er hands around ‘im and give y’erself the pleasure ya deserve.”

What sounded like a whimper met her ear, but the sound quickly departed, making way for a descending zipper.

“Fiona…”

“Wrap y’er hand ‘round.”

“Hmpfh.”

“Ya got it darlin’. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it. With lovin’ y’erself a lil.”

He didn’t say anything for a while, but somehow, she knew his receiver was just as tightly pressed to his ear as hers was.

“Fiona…sweet girl…I wish I could replace your fingers with mine.”

She gasped, fingers increasing their circling around her clit. Her thumbnail brushed it every so often.

“Arthur, darlin’…y’er wreckin’ me.”

She stopped trying to control the intensity of her breathing. She wanted him to know the effect he was having on her.

“I wanted you from the moment I saw you,” he said, voice shaky and rough. “I knew under those clothes you’d be…soft…and so many…curves…and when you walked away…I wanted to…sink…my teeth into your…”

He was either too worked up to finish the statement, or too shy. It skyrocketed her arousal either way.

“I’d let ya,” she whispered. “I’d let ya handle me however gentle or rough ya wanted. I’d pull y’er hair ‘cos it’s just the right length…to make the sting so good. Kiss ya up ‘n down y’er neck…find all the spots that make ya sensitive…make ya sink t’a y’er knees.”

“_Fuck._”

It’s the first time she’d heard him swear and it only sped up her circling.

“_Fiona…fuck. _L-let me come over there. Tell me where you live and-_and_ I’ll make you feel so _fucking_ good you won’t need _anyone_ else _ever_ again.”

Her knees quivered as she sunk her middle finger inside, followed by her index while her thumb tended to her hypersensitive clit. Words were no longer possible, only noises.

Soft mewls transcended to high-pitched grunts. Her hips lifted up and down, fucking her fingers as spots of black appeared in her vision.

“_Arthur_.”

It was the last word she managed to release before her thumb pressed down and refused to let up. Her orgasm pulsed through her, coating her fingers with juices, and momentarily wiping her brain clean of any and all thought.

Arthur’s own orgasm followed almost immediately after; low, rough groans spreading his mouth out so wide he nearly swallowed the receiver. He didn’t know at what point the tears had leaked out, only that for once in his life, they weren’t due to sadness or frustration.

He glanced down at himself, hand covered in fluids. He imagined the same hand pleasuring Fiona, letting her fluids cover him, and venturing a taste after. She was so, so sweet he didn’t doubt what came from between her legs wasn’t just as delicious.

“Fiona?” he said softly, missing her moans already.

When she didn’t answer, he repeated her name.

_She wouldn’t be so cruel as to hang up already, would she?_

A quiet snore traveled through the receiver, alerting him that she had passed out.

He didn’t dare to wake her, fully content to listen to her slumber. In the meantime, he grabbed at some tissues nearby and wiped his hand clean. He then picked up his notebook and turned it to the most recent entry.

**Work - Boone’s Emporium Records (Kubrick District near Strang)  
**

**Manager of Lou & the Crawlers **  
**Best friend - ** <strike>**Lou**  
</strike>

**Mother - Prosecutor Evelyn Kiehl  
(_NOT_ a good woman…has HURT Fiona)**

** Work on confidence!!! **

_ **A****rthur & Fiona Fleck...nice ring to it ** _

He fell asleep with the notebook open on his chest, a content smile sprawled across his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally part of chapter 2, but the whole chapter combined was 10,000 words+ and it bothered me because I know each chapter won't be that amount, and I wanted a little consistency and room to breathe. So, I took this chunk and made it into chapter 3. Apologies for any confusion!


	4. Chapter 4

Fiona awoke to a splintering headache and the purr of a dial tone. The sunlight streaming through her shades was much too bright and she didn’t particularly want to open her eyes.

_God damn, feel like I drank a liquor distillery._

Her recovery was disturbed by a vengeful bout of nausea. A moment later and she was rushing to the bathroom, just barely able to make it to the toilet before expelling all of what she ate yesterday into the bowl.

“Fuck,” she groaned, spitting out the last of the chunks. “No more drinking…not unless it’s a holiday.”

She slipped to the floor, opting to rest her head for a moment or two. The cool tile felt heavenly against her burning forehead. Bits and pieces of the night before wormed their way to the forefront of her mind. She recalled her mother coming over, getting obliterated immediately after, and making a phone call.

“Fuckin’ shit,” she mumbled, realizing now why she’d woken up with her hand in her underwear.

_Wonder if there’s an award for bein’ the dumbest person alive. Can’t imagine I got any competition._

She couldn’t recall the entirety of her conversation with Arthur, but her orgasm played over and over in her head with disturbing clarity.

Her face warmed back up again. It wasn’t so much what had transpired that got to her. She’d always been an affectionate drunk, never pretended to be otherwise. Rather, her worry existed in what her actions would implicate to Arthur.

At this stage in her life she wasn’t looking to settle down or be attached to anyone romantically. From what she remembered of Arthur’s words to her during their…discussion, he struck her as the romantic type. It wasn’t in her nature to lead people on, and she couldn’t help but feel that’s exactly what she had done, even though liquor was the underlying culprit.

_Liquor only spurs on existin’ feelings. Maybe I am a little bit lonely._

This wasn’t a train of thought she was thrilled to examine too closely. So, with a slight wobble, she lifted herself up to her feet, swaying slightly. Her first order of business was to get showered up. She’d managed to catch the time before her sprint to the bathroom and had a solid hour to make herself presentable before opening the store.

Forty minutes later and she was locking up her apartment, hoping the aspirin would kick in quick and dull her headache from hell. Arthur still lingered in the confines of her mind, but for the time being she chose not to harp on their exchange too much. It’s not like they’d agreed to a relationship or made extended plans to meet up. The incident was what it was. An incident. She held the power not to repeat it and so long as she didn’t go on any more benders, she’d be safe.

Work was thankfully busy, helping keep her mind distracted. Bob Marley & the Wailers had played at the largest venue in Gotham earlier in the week, so a majority of the sales were Marley or reggae-related. El Diablo was behaving for once, which piqued her suspicions, but she chose not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She was pleasantly surprised to see Dale back, who still looked a little under the weather, but worked quietly and diligently.

All in all it was business as usual, and by the time the last couple of hours were left, the events from last night were nearly wiped clean from her mind.

“Excuse me, are you Fiona Hill?”

She looked up from her price gun. A beefy, heavy-set man looking to be in his fifties with slicked back silver hair and a well-groomed goatee, stood at the counter. He wore a tailored two-piece suit, the collar undone enough to expose a few escaping chest hairs.

“I am she. What can I do ya for?”

One hand disappeared from his pocket. He produced a bronze-tinted card and offered it to her.

“Name’s Kane Kapling, I’m a producer and studio manager at Grassmere Records.”

Her eyes widened. Grassmere Records was one of the largest blues recording companies in the entire country. Plenty of big names had composed their first albums there before skyrocketing to fame. She couldn’t help but feel a little dazed being in the proximity of someone so…official.

“Managed to catch your band’s show at Delta’s,” he explained, clasping his hands together behind his back. “Mighty intrigued with what I heard. You slipped off before I could catch you.”

She tried to calm her racing heart but wasn’t all too successful.

“T-thank you,” she sounded out. “They worked hard that night.”

“The sound is…innovative. Can’t say I’ve heard much like it. Was wondering if your band would be interested in stopping by the studio sometime next week. They can jam a little bit, we’ll see if their sound can’t be developed more, and if all is successful we can see about potentially outlining a studio album.”

Her open-mouthed staring must have unnerved him a bit. He cleared his throat roughly.

“I-yeah. I’ll um…” She swallowed. “I’ll discuss this with ‘em. Can’t imagine they’ll say no, but I been surprised ‘fore.”

“Excellent. The sooner the better,” he recommended. “We’re booked solid this month and with the success of The Eagles and Allman Brothers, truthfully, are on a bit of a scouting spree.”

“You’ll hear back from me in the next few days,” she promised, glancing down at the phone number on the card. “Thank you, Kane.”

She extended a hand. Kane seemed surprised at the gesture, but shook it nevertheless.

As soon as he left the store, she was on the phone with Lou, teeming with elation.

“Lo?”

He sounded as rough as she had this morning.

“You in a state t’a talk?”

“Anyone else and I’d say no.” _Welp, someone’s grumpy. _“What’s happening, Fi?”

She recited the conversation she’d had with Kane.

“You’re yankin’ my chain.”

“Ain’t no yankin’, Lou. Serious as a heart attack.”

For the first time in her life she listened to a grown man hoot and holler at the top of his lungs. His excitement was so contagious she couldn’t help but hop in the air twice, aiming a punch at the ceiling. Dale and Reggie threw her concerned looks, but she wasn’t in any position to care.

“Christ Fi,” he said once he’d calmed down. “This could be it.”

“I know darlin’, I know. I gotta close up shop, but could ya contact everyone else and see about gettin’ together?”

“Consider it done.”

She hung up, smile irrepressible.

Sunday was the day she and the Crawlers elected to meet, and the consensus ended up being unanimous: they would attend a session at Grassmere, throw around ideas, and show off a little of what they could do.

After everyone had dispersed from the not even ten-minute long pow wow, Curtis hung back to chat.

“Uh.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks for not letting me leave, Fi. And not telling them I wanted to. Feel like a bit of a dick for even considering it.”

“It all worked out. That’s what ya focus on from now on, ‘kay? That ‘n y’er bandmates ‘n y’er music.”

They shared a long hug before promising to catch each other Wednesday evening at the studio.

Upon returning home, Fiona was greeted with her phone ringing off its hinges.

“Lo?”

“Fiona?”

Her brows shot up.

“Vance?”

“Ay ya chickadee. How’s the big city treatin’ ya?”

She was silent for a moment, recalling their last conversation. Or more accurately, borderline screaming match. It’d been over half a year since they last spoke and as relieved as she was to hear from him, she also couldn’t contain her apprehension.

Vance seemed to pick up on this with her extended pause.

“Owe ya a whopper of an apology, Fi. Was a downright prick when ya told me ‘bout movin’ with Ma. I _ah_-I was so angry. Pa had just passed and…’motions we’re high. Don’t ‘xcuse it, but I said what I said. Shouldn’ta, but I did.”

Any hostility she had for her big brother evaporated in an instant. On the rare occasion that they fought, both were steadfast in their anger, but the animosity never lasted long. She wasn’t sure if it was because they were so close growing up or because it was a sibling thing. Either way, his apology soothed the part of her that’d been aching since their last talk.

“Ya were a prick, but I get it and I forgive ya,” she said, dropping into the sofa. “Gotham’s been treatin’ me as well as to be ‘xpected. Crime’s crazy high but ain’t no one given me issues soon as I whip out m’a little friend.”

“You _actually_ carry it ‘round with you?”

“You _don’t_ carry ‘round yours?”

“I don’t wanna get arrested.”

“Pfft…whimp.”

“Good luck gettin’ me t’a visit y’er ass in jail, Jason Voorhees.”

She chuckled, knowing he’d probably be one of the few to visit on the regular should she ever end up in that position.

“What’s ah…what’s Ma like?”

Suppressing a sigh, Fiona fiddled with the cord.

“Ya were right. I shouldn’ta ever come ‘ere. I mean…I’m glad ‘cos I built myself a pretty nice life. But Ma…she weren’t worth the effort of reconnectin’ with.”

“That’s a shit shame, Fi. I’m sorry.”

“Least I know, ya know? Don’t ‘ave any regrets, wonderin’ if I missed out.” She scratched her chin. “She call ya by chance? This last time we…talked, she threatened t’a send me back on a plane and fly ya out here ‘nstead.”

“Naw, things been silent on my end.”

“Hmm…just don’t know why she chose me t’a begin with and not you.”

“Well…ya were young before the divorce happened. Ever notice she seemed to ah…bond with me more? Don’t mean that in an antagnozin’ way neither.”

Though her memories prior to the divorce were few and far in between, she knew exactly what he was talking about. At the time, she hadn’t taken it too personally. Evelyn had been closer to Vance and her dad closer to her. She figured growing up that it wasn’t uncommon for a parent to favor one child more than the other.

But looking back on it… all the times her mother had taken Vance to the drive-in but not her, gifted him randomly with handsewn jeans or socks but not her, was the one to comfort him after a bad day while her father helped her…there was clearly an imbalance in attention. Not to say her mother had ever went out of her way to be mean or to love one child more…just that…there was a distance between the two that existed with unclear origins.

“Maybe she felt bad?” Vance offered. “So she’s tryin’ t’a make up for it?”

“Doin’ a shit job of it so far.”

“So, this mean ya gonna come back home?”

She hesitated.

“Not just yet.”

They conversed for another hour, catching up on all that was new in their worlds from the past six months. He shocked her by admitting that he’d settled down with a girl and it was looking to be serious. All throughout school he was a notorious womanizer. Respectful as hell, but a womanizer nevertheless. She couldn’t help but tease him about some of his more…risqué encounters that on more than one occasion lead to the acquisition of a stalker.

Before they hung up, they agreed to make it a routine of calling each other at least once a week. Rekindle what had simmered.

Fiona went to sleep that night with a lopsided smile, wondering if things weren’t finally going her way.

***

The next few days turned out to be a whirlwind, making her eternally thankful for the mass production of coffee.

It began Monday on her way to work. She’d been lost in thought about starting a search for apartments when a television screen caught her eye. Well, several televisions screens actually. They were all broadcasting various shows through the window of _Mel’s TV & Appliances_. Usually she strolled past without a glance, but a familiar figure grabbed her attention.

She couldn’t hear what was being said, but her eyes soaked in the closed captioning at the bottom of the screen.

Last night’s segment from the Murray Franklin show was broadcasting. Personally, she didn’t care for the entertainer. He had an air about him that reminded her of Thomas Wayne during his interview with the press, post-subway killings. Deeply immersed in his delusion of self-importance, and out of touch with the common people.

This feeling temporarily subsided when Murray introduced a clip of a stand-up act at Pogo’s from a very familiar individual.

“Arthur?” she whispered under her breath as she stepped closer to watch.

Though she hadn’t spoken to the man since their intimate phone call and still carried a wedge of embarrassment from it, that didn’t mean she didn’t wish the best for him. He was sweet, considerate, and tender at heart…she couldn’t at this time give him what he deserved, but he deserved it nevertheless, and then some.

A breathtaking pang shot through her chest as he succumbed on stage to the laughing condition she’d read on his card. He could barely get a joke out he was howling so badly.

_Oh darlin’._

When he finally regained enough composure to get out his first joke – she found it a little corny, but because it was him, she couldn’t keep from smiling fondly - Murray had returned to the screen, throwing in a series of mean-spirited quips.

_Rotten asshole._

She didn’t move from her spot, even as the credits rolled and people jostled past her.

_Should I call him? Has he seen it yet?_

She bit her lip, indecision fusing her to the concrete.

_It’s the kind thing to do. He comforted me when I was down. _

And yet…she was worried he might perceive it as an invitation for more. Thanks to her hormones, they could no longer be acquaintances, or even just friends. She’d made it sexual _and_ she’d made it personal. Could she handle letting him down if he pressed for more?

_Maybe he won’t want more. We’re two rational adults. We know what alcohol does. His feelings could be just as casual as mine._

Somehow, she wasn’t fully convinced. Days later and bits of that night were still returning to her. At one point he’d asked where she lived and had begged to come over. Thank the _lord_ she hadn’t given in to that request.

_I could apologize for bein’ ‘nappropriate with him. Establish boundaries. Let ‘im know I’m not like that usually, ‘n then comfort him._

She got the feeling this would be a lot easier said than done.

When she finally found the motivation to walk again, it was with slow steps and deflated shoulders.

_I’mma god damn chicken. Persuadin’ him t’a have phone sex ‘n never speakin’ to him again. This…this is why I don’t get ‘nvolved. Always find a way of messin’ things up._

She told herself there was still room to change her mind. Dial his digits and offer the emotional support he’d no doubt be seeking.

But she knew deep down inside she would rely on the coward’s way out. Spare herself the embarrassment she sowed, even if it meant hurting someone else’s feelings.

Work kept her mind off Arthur for the rest of the day, but the weight of her decision altered her countenance somewhat. She could feel herself being a little shorter with customers, a little less accommodating to their needs, a little more tense when she got a moment of free time. It was as if she were punishing herself for her selfishness by behaving just as shitty as she felt.

Wednesday morning brought about something else entirely to occupy her thoughts.

“Can’t believe how busy we’ve been already,” she mentioned to Josie as they finished up with their twentieth customer. “’N all sortsa genres at that. Usually, I can sense a pattern, but there ain’t none.”

She cocked her head, studying her with a funny look

“Fi, didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Rocco’s caught fire over the night. Heard it was some electrical wiring issue. All they could salvage was the outside of the building. Everything inside was lost or too badly damaged from smoke.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“Lucky for us, right?”

“Yeah,” Fiona answered, scratching the back of her head. “Lucky.”

She was torn. On one hand, no business deserved to go out like that, least of all a place that sold music. She’d met Rocco, the owner, on a couple of occasions, and though their stores were rivals, their mutual love of less mainstream genres guaranteed an agreeable partnership.

But that was just it. Rocco’s was a rival, and a damn good one. She hated herself for thinking it, but if business kept at the rate that this morning was going, she might be able to update a few more things on her to-do list, and even hire on another person. If this happened, she could make Josie manager, and this would leave her with someone besides herself to open and close the shop.

“No one got hurt?”

“Not that I heard of.”

They remained steady throughout the day, peaking in the afternoon when the schools got out and teenagers swarmed the store. By the time she had counted down the registers that evening, she had to redo the calculations three times just to make sure she was seeing her profit sum correctly. Apart from the day preceding Valentine’s, she had never seen such a healthy figure before.

This emboldened feeling stuck with her through the remainder of the night, including at Grassmere Records, where she was reacquainted with Kane, and the Crawlers _acquainted_ with him.

For the most part she stayed quiet as Kane asked each of them individually to partake in a thirty second solo with their instrument. His eyes would slip shut each time one of the Crawlers began playing. It was like he was envisioning the melody in his head.

He then had them play the last song off their set at Delta’s, and after a few tweaks involving Bette and Lou’s timing for their outro solos, reconfirmed an appointment with the group for two weeks later. In the meantime, he wanted them to work on a draft of eight songs and to keep in mind thematic concepts for their album. Who is the audience? What should they take away from each song? Are they interconnected, or standalones?

Although they weren’t yet technically signed, they were on the precipice. And this realization prickled up and down their spines like bursts of lightning.

The next evening, Fiona hung around the store past closing time. She needed to skim the payroll and work the remaining numbers around to see what she could afford to splurge on without being irresponsible.

A piercing series of taps against her store’s window, however, jolted her out of concentration. Twilight was rapidly descending upon Gotham, aiding her with just enough light to make out who stood there.

Her initial reaction was to lower her head back down and continue working. Pretend the figure wasn’t there to begin with.

But her mother continued her determined taps against the window and Fiona knew she wouldn’t get a moment’s peace until she was acknowledged.

She begrudgingly unlocked the front door and wordlessly stepped back to allow her entrance. Save for the addition of a manila wool scarf, she looked just as she had last week at her apartment. Except she’d been to her apartment before. Never to her record shop. Which piqued her interest enough not to immediately demand she leave.

Evelyn allowed her gaze to absorb the interior, expression neutral.

_Swear to the lord she says one negative thing…_

“It’s…tidier in here than I expected it to be.”

Fiona cocked a brow, choosing not to respond. She crossed her arms.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve stopped by.” She slung her purse down to grip it in her palm. Her free hand reached inside and pulled out a dark green file. “I meant to take this to the grave with me, but in light of our…exchange last week and your revelation of what your father told you about the divorce…I felt the need to…clear the air.”

She thumbed the file, something akin to regret resting on her features. It was so unlike her that Fiona accepted the file when it was offered to her.

Her heart thudded against her ribcage. A voice told her she didn’t have to look inside. She ignored it, exasperated by her own cowardice.

Adjusting her glasses, she opened the file.

Staring back at her was the document of her birth from the hospital she had been delivered at. Nothing out of the ordinary struck her, until she examined who was listed as her birth parents.

“Is this right?” she asked, suddenly feeling miles away from her body.

Her father’s name –**_ Lester Hill_** – was listed first, followed by the woman who had given birth to her-

** _Annabelle Moss_ **

Her eyes shot up to Evelyn.

“Who the hell is Annabelle Moss?”

“She is-_was _the woman who gave birth to you,” she said, sounding just as pained explaining it as Fiona felt hearing it. “Your father only ever cheated on me once, but it left its mark. He convinced me to stay on Vance’s behalf, promising to never give in to temptation again and to never tell either of you. Annabelle wasn’t…keen on keeping you. Her pregnancy outside of wedlock, with a married man at that, strained ties with her family. They promised to forgive her for her transgression if she signed you off into our permanent guardianship. Which she did.”

Fiona shook her head. Her thoughts were oddly silent. All she could do was listen and try to control her bodily responses.

“Vance is your half-brother, though I doubt this makes a difference as you two have always been inseparable.”

She closed the file and brought it to her chest.

“Y-you left,” was all she managed out. “Because of _me_.”

Evelyn ventured a few steps toward her, raising an arm before lowering it.

“I…left because I never quite forgave your father for his indiscretion. No matter how many times he apologized, I was reminded each time I looked at you that he chose another woman over his wife. And damn it all if you didn’t look like her.”

She swallowed and closed her eyes. The burning sensation usually preceding tears made her sockets throb.

“Fiona, look at me.”

Her breaths were coming out shaky and uneven.

“Fiona, _please_.”

“Just…just gimme a moment.”

She kept her attention focused on taming her breathing. It wouldn’t benefit to freak out…not until she was in the safety of her home.

Slowly, her blue eyes, a hue darker, reopened.

Evelyn stood only an arm’s distance away. The wrinkles at the corner of her eyes were scrunched downward. Her frown was one of remorse, not displeasure like it usually was.

“I…owe you an apology,” she said. “You asked me why it seemed like I was punishing you. This…this is why. It was never my intent to. I had figured enough time had passed when I reached out, that those feelings were no longer an issue. You were out a father and I confess…I was not as attentive to you growing up as I should have been. Vance…he was easier to love. I…had to make an effort with you.”

Fiona could only nod dumbly.

“That does not mean I never did,” she persisted. “You were a…gentle child. You never threw tantrums, never fussed, picked up on manners without us having to enforce them. It was…not an easy decision to give you both up, and I refused to keep one but not the other. At the time….I felt it was simpler to cut all ties and relocate.”

“And was it?” she croaked out.

Evelyn’s frown deepened.

“I had to let a part of me die…and that was painful. That pain never fully recedes, you can only keep yourself occupied long enough not to acknowledge it. Do this long enough and you can convince yourself it’s no longer there.”

Neither spoke for a moment, soaking the words in.

“I…have treated you unfairly since you’ve arrived. I have been…selfish and deaf to your wishes and endeavors. I have punished you for the misdeed of someone who is no longer living. I hope you can find the mercy to forgive me for failing you. I may not have given birth to you…but…you _are_ my daughter, Fiona. And you always will be.”

She was so exhausted that all she could do was nod and nod and nod, swimming aimlessly in her emotions.

Evelyn seemed to understand she wasn’t in a conversational headspace. Overloading her any further, she figured, would be unwise.

“If you are ever interested, I would like to start again.” She retrieved a business card and gently slipped it under the thumb holding the file. “My personal extension is on there. You won’t have to fight through Sally to get to me. You will get only me. Perhaps…we can have dinner one night. Your choosing. I could use a change of scenery.”

Fiona ceased her nodding, eyes meeting her mother’s.

“You don’t have to make a decision now,” she said. “Just…consider it, okay?”

“’Kay,” she answered softly.

Backing away, Evelyn straightened her posture, sliding the handle of her bag back into its spot at the inner crease of her elbow.

“Please, take care of yourself. Gotham is descending into a level of chaos I’ve not witnessed in all my time living here. And please…for your sake…be careful who you reveal our relationship to. I may not admit to it publicly, but I have enemies who are looking for any excuse to knock me down. You…are the _only_ thing in this city capable of doing so.”

With those parting words, Evelyn turned and strolled out of the store, leaving Fiona to stare after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drink responsibly y'all!  
Next chapter will be Arthur's POV,  
let's see what our murderous boi has been up to >: )


	5. Chapter 5

On the same Monday morning Fiona was glued to the television screen outside of Mel’s watching the Murray Franklin show, Arthur was weaving through the sidewalk just a half mile east, hands buried in his coat pockets. His encounter with Bruce Wayne was still fresh in mind - having only occurred yesterday – as was the scalding humiliation he felt at witnessing his television hero embarrass him on a national stage. He knew he couldn’t afford to let this humiliation inhibit his plans for the day, no matter how much he wished to. So, he suppressed as much as he could to make functioning possible, even though at the very core, he was devastated beyond belief.

Currently, his focus deviated between two priorities: discovering his parental origins, and finding Fiona. Having temporarily tended to the former, he opted today to begin tending to the latter.

It was equal parts thrilling and aggravating to ponder over her. Their encounters were so disappointingly brief and sporadic that when she finally offered a little of herself to him, he couldn’t help but feel like a child in a candy store who had been deprived of sweets his whole life.

Plainly put, he wanted her in his life. _Terribly_. And from what she sounded like on the brink of orgasm, moaning his name so _exquisitely_, he figured she wouldn’t mind being on the receiving end of his advances.

Even though she had yet to call him back.

Which…_bothered_ _him_. He didn’t think he had misinterpreted her affections. True, they hadn’t discussed getting together again, but he figured the intimacy and vulnerability they’d shared with one another would at least prompt another call from her.

He ran a hand over his stubbled face, blowing into his palm the stench of stale tobacco

He wasn’t stupid. He had always been keenly aware he wasn’t anybody’s first choice as a partner. Women looked through him when he spoke, and his shyness guaranteed he would never gather the courage to demand their attention.

Fiona…she was the first woman to see him in so long that he forgot how mind-numbingly blissful the feeling could be. At last…at last, he had someone to live for, someone to pour himself into when he overflowed.

He skipped over the legs of a drunk passed out against a pawn shop, whistling as he went.

_I went almost four decades without knowing this feeling. And now everything I have ever wanted in a woman appears and she…sees me. It can’t be coincidence. It isn’t a cruel joke. What we have…what she makes me feel…it’s worth pursuing until my heart gives out._

“_Yes_,” he clarified under his breath.

And in his defense: how could anyone resist Fiona? Kind and thoughtful and _naughty_… Maybe if he was still drugged into oblivion, he would have stood a chance. But even then…his first encounter with her in the alley…she was an iridescent flame and he the moth eager to dive in and succumb to her orbit. She had burned those that harmed him, and he would kill anyone that tried to stifle her light.

Their phone conversation…he had it memorized to a T. Her soft, heady moans haunted him in the emptiness of his apartment. He couldn’t go long without wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking himself, imagining being there with her as she got herself off. _Helping_ get her off. Using tongue or fingers or whatever else she desired.

Her terms of endearment (_darlin’_, he recalled fondly) fueled his growing confidence. They were imprinted in his mind, erasing the insults others used in the past – _strange, pathetic, weak, unimportant, forgettable_.

How could anyone ever expect him to stay away?

It was with this mindset that he finally paused next to a postal mailbox, gaze swinging diagonally across the street where a small, shabby little business - _Boone’s Record Emporium_ \- stood. It was nestled between a dimly lit laundromat and an arcade. No lights were on inside yet, but he had all the patience in the world to wait around, choosing to puff on a cigarette to pass the time.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long. Not twenty minutes later and Fiona popped into view from around the block, her hands buried in her own black windbreaker.

His breath caught in his throat. It was only the second time he had seen her in person and it took an excruciating amount of willpower not to urge his legs to carry him across the street and make his presence known.

_I need to have patience. She likes me, but she is…cautious. I need to learn as much as I can so I know how to approach._

Arthur grimaced somewhat at this. Ever since killing the wall street guys, a metamorphosis was underway in his psyche; accelerated as the last of his medication began to wear off. And while a healthy portion of him benefited from these alterations – namely no one could push him around anymore – when this newly founded mindset focused on Fiona, he sometimes worried.

He would never hurt her, never even considered it no matter how violent his thoughts got…but his need to be close to her sometimes brought about less than ideal solutions on how to win her approval. If being pleasant and polite didn’t work, he wasn’t above resorting to less…_courteous_ means. What these means entailed…he hoped to never have to rely on them.

Which is why he needed to study her and get it right.

Grateful that he had bought a pack before leaving home, Arthur spent the day watching his sweet girl run about managing her business and chugging down an impressive amount of coffee. That she owned a record store was further proof in his mind that they were meant to cross each other’s paths. He was painfully curious as to what her tastes were and whether they were similar to his. A few times throughout the day he indulged in fantasies of waltzing and slow dancing with her along the street; humming as he did so.

He gauged that she had three other co-workers and her relationship with them was thankfully professional. He’d not forgotten about how fondly she spoke of her…best friend…but from the way she interacted with those around her, he suspected this individual wasn’t there.

Though a handful of times her store got busy, more often than not she and her coworkers were the only ones present, tending to their downtime duties. He recalled her lament about having stiff competition and made it a mental note to learn which shop was nearest hers. Perhaps he could assist her from the shadows. This store meant a lot to her, and thus, it meant something to him as well.

When evening approached, her coworkers filed out one by one, leaving her to close up.

The part of the day he’d been anticipating most, finally arrived. After she had locked the front door and zipped up her jacket, she set about on her journey home. He crossed the street when she was at the end of the block and peeked at the store hours. A moment later, he was off after her, careful to keep an appropriate distance back.

She mostly walked with her head down, but he noticed her right hand occasionally stroking her hip where he guessed her machete to be attached. That she wielded such a long, dangerous weapon was wildly attractive to him. His petite, sweet girl, able to hold her own…willing to slice apart anyone daring to get nearer to her than she (_he_) was comfortable with…willing to look insane as a means of self-preservation…

He stopped briefly at the mouth of an alley to palm himself, attempting to cool his sizzling hormones. If trailing her elicited these sorts of reactions, he wondered what finally having her in his arms would do to him.

He caught up shortly after.

She lived at least a thirty-minute walk away from her store and he was puzzled as to why she didn’t rely on transportation to get her to work and back. Especially since she’d been on her feet all day. Then again, she had gone through – to his count – twelve cups of coffee. Maybe she needed the stroll to work off excess energy. And it was probably best as he’d have a tougher time disguising his presence on transportation. Even when her pace picked up, he found his doing so as well, never wanting to be far enough of a distance to lose sight of her swinging ponytail.

_Wonder if she’d let me tug on it while I…_

He ceased that line of thinking right away.

_Save it…for when I get home._

It was just so…_difficult_. Finally, _finally_ she was close enough to reach out and grab. The proximity alone taunted him. As if it were mocking: _here she is, here she is, come and get her!_

He couldn’t deny the idea was tempting, but rational ultimately won over.

It was like a cat and mouse game, he figured. No point in confronting the mouse without studying its habits and reactions to its environment first. That way, down the line, there was less of a chance to be caught off guard. That way, when he finally pounced, the mouse would have no avenues to escape because the cat already thought of them.

When she finally arrived at the four-story former schoolhouse tucked between two alleys that she deemed home, he lingered at the corner of the street, scoping out the entrance. She lived in a much nicer part of Gotham than he did, though even her street wasn’t immune to the garbage bags piled high, nor the blight-bitten buildings.

She slipped in and he debated how soon to follow. In an enclosed area he’d be much easier to spot. Then again, the building housed a lot of units and he couldn’t afford to lose track of which one was hers.

Risking it, Arthur bolted towards the doors, sliding his hood over his head.

Upon entrance, his eyes scoured the brightly lit lobby, but she was nowhere to be found. An elevator was on its journey up, but there were no floor numbers above it to indicate which level it would stop on.

As he pondered on his next move, the elevator descended again. When its doors popped open, two identical elderly women – one walking with the assistance of a walker – got out. They were arguing quietly with one another as they made their way to the mail boxes.

Sliding his hood down, Arthur watched them, right leg shaking in place.

_It couldn’t hurt._

He ran a hand through his hair, attempting to fluff it a bit so it didn’t look so anchored with grease, before approaching the duo. He hadn’t a clue what to say, so, relied on the part of him that’d become much more bold as of late, to do the talking.

“Excuse me,” he said, throwing on the softest smile he was capable of producing.

The one clutching their mail, turned first, followed by the one with the walker. They eyed him with thinly veiled suspicion, informing him he’d really have to lay on the charm.

“Would one of you beautiful ladies be willing to assist me? I just arrived from the other side of the country to surprise my-,” he hesitated slightly, debating on a convincing enough word to use, “-_fiancé_ for her birthday, but can’t for the life of me remember what she said her apartment number is. Between the flight and planning the wedding it has unfortunately slipped my mind.”

He cracked a harmless chuckle, having to bite on his tongue to stop after a few seconds before he got going and couldn’t stop. The idea of Fiona being his wife one day tickled him very much. Had he continued, his laughter would have been one of relentless euphoria.

“Fiona is her name,” he followed up, bringing his shoulders together. “If you don’t know who I’m talking about, thank you for time anyway. I hate to ruin the surprise, but I suppose it doesn’t matter in the long run. I’m finally here with her.”

Their unease melted away as they took in his shy stance and crooked smile.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” the one clutching the mail said. “Fiona is such a good girl, it’s about time she settled down with someone.”

_Good girl indeed…when she wants to be._

He forced this predatory thought from broadcasting in his smile.

“4F is her number,” the one with the walker shared. “Lizzie’s right, she is a good girl. So don’t you go breaking her heart. Or you will have us to answer to.”

She shook a bony finger at him as a threat.

Arthur raised his arms, shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And he meant it. “She’s-she is the love of my life. Life wasn’t worth living before I met her. I will treat her the way she deserves to be treated and nothing less.”

His voice had grown gravely serious by the end of the statement.

But it seemed to have won the women over.

“How sweet, gentlemen are a rarity nowadays,” the one with the walker said. “Be sure Fiona sends us an invite. I’ll be sore if she doesn’t.”

“I will be sure to remind her,” he promised. “And remember, I am here as a surprise, so please don’t mention anything about my being here.” He placed a finger to his lips in a _shh_ motion. “I’d hate to ruin it.”

They nodded in unison.

“Thank you so very much, sweet gals.” He extended an arm and placed a kiss atop each of their wrinkled hands. “You saved the day.”

They tittered at this and after a few more pleasantries, hobbled back to the elevators.

Once the doors had dinged shut, Arthur looked up and grinned widely enough to hurt his cheeks. But he relished in it. Tomorrow would be a very important day in learning about who his _fian_-his sweet girl was. He could not wait.

***

Suspecting from the day prior that Fiona opened and closed her store, Arthur was out of his apartment by 8:30a.m. _The earlier, the better_, he figured. He didn’t want to risk the surprise of her returning early.

His first stop was to a nearby used camera and video equipment store. He’d been conservative with his savings since his firing, and without needing to buy groceries to feed his mother, had enough sitting for him to splurge a little.

The cashier ignored him as he perused the aisles, stopping when he reached the section holding instant cameras. He picked up the one nearest to him – a Polaroid Land Camera 1000 – and turned it over, studying it. He remembered years ago when advertisements first ran on television for them. He’d told his mother he wanted one, but the price range had been, in his opinion, absurd.

With newer models out, the price tag attached to this camera was thankfully much more reasonable.

Arthur brought the camera up to his face, one eye closing as the other looked through the eyepiece. He slowly turned until he was facing the window looking out to the street. A homeless man he’d passed on the way, recaptured his attention. He sat to the back of a brick building across the street, huddled in a ratty blanket. Nearby was a grocery cart loaded with bottles and plastic bags of whatever he could scavenge out of the dumpster.

His finger pressed down, capturing the moment. A _whirring_ noise sounded, followed by the ejection of the photo. It took its time appearing in the frame, but once it did, Arthur examined it closely.

“Hey!”

He nearly dropped the photo.

The cashier stalked toward him, gaze shooting between the camera and the photo.

“You’re not allowed to test the merchandise,” he snapped. “You use it, you buy it.”

Arthur’s fingers tightened painfully around the device. A thought passed briefly of bludgeoning the man’s brains in with it.

But the urge subsided, and he loosened his grip.

“Sorry.” He pocketed the photo. “I’ll pay for it.”

The cashier threw him a less than impressed look before heading to the counter. Arthur bit down on his tongue but wasn’t able to stifle the laughter. He let the fit claim him before heading up to the counter to pay.

By the time he had exited the store, it was just past nine o’clock. Fiona was most likely at work by now, so he set off in the direction of her apartment.

One subway ride to the southwest of the city later and he was again planted outside of her apartment building. Wasting no time dawdling, he stalked in and headed straight to the elevator. His hand shook when he pressed the button for the 4th floor. No one accompanied him up, and he released a held in breath upon reaching her floor, relieved to find no one waiting to get on.

His eyes roamed over the unit numbers, veering left shortly after. Not a full thirty second walk later and tucked away in the corner at the end of the hallway sat apartment 4F.

He paused in front of the door, sensing it would be locked, but checking just in case it was his lucky day. It wasn’t.

His pick pocketing skills were rusty. The job he’d held prior to being a party clown more often than not saw him working late into the evening. Every now and again, his mother would slip up and lock the door before going to bed. Aggrieved from dozing in the hall the few times this occurred, he acquired the necessary tools to hone the skill after thumbing through a hardware magazine on a sidewalk stand.

Sweat coated his fingers, causing the pin to slip a few times. He glanced to his right each time this happened, heart thudding at the risk of being caught.

_What does it matter, I’ll kill them if they do see. Throw their body down the laundry chute and come back another time. _

The ease at which this thought came should have uneased him, but it didn’t.

The lock finally gave way and he pulled the knob at the same time as his shoulder propelled into the door. With an awkward hastiness, he slid in and slammed it behind him, locking it for good measure.

When he turned around, heart finally calming, he wasn’t sure what to take in first.

Her apartment was much smaller than he anticipated it being. A small kitchenette was shoved off immediately to his right. He noticed she didn’t have a refrigerator, but rather two mini fridges sitting side by side on the already narrow and short counter. Atop one of the fridges was a bowl containing a mix of peaches, apples, and figs. A coffee maker, used recently judging by the smell of her place, was the only other item there was room for, snuggled up next to the sink.

He slid off his shoes and wandered into the kitchenette, flicking on the sole lightbulb in the room. He opened the mini fridge closest to him first. One hand brought the camera up to his eye and snapped a photo. Once the photo had developed, he slipped it into his jacket pocket. The second mini fridge was opened next. After shuffling around some of the brand names so they were readable, he snapped another photo and pocketed it.

She only had four cabinets, mostly housing plates, seasonings, spices and cereal, but he snapped them all nevertheless. A large mason jar filled halfway with an amber liquid piqued his interest. He brought it down to examine it closer, fingers undoing the lid. His eyebrows shot up at the scent. Painstakingly saccharine with an undenying hint of alcohol. He sipped a little from it, surprised to find it pleasant. The liquor was hardly present in the taste and his belly felt deliciously warm soon after.

Venturing out of the kitchenette led him into the living room. He was intrigued to find the walls were exposed brick. Any other apartment and he thought it would give the interior a cold look. But Fiona had done a fine job of warming it up. Lamps were positioned in three of the four corners of the room. Clearly, his girl loved her light.

A soft plum sofa was tilted diagonally against the corner to his left. Behind it loomed a lamp and to the left of the sofa’s arm was a well-crafted, honey-colored coffee table. He neared it upon locating the telephone on top.

_This is where she did it. Where she pleasured herself with me._

He tilted his head, grinning wolfishly. The camera found its way back up to his eye and he snapped another photo. Sentiment got the better of him and he plopped down on the cushion closest to the phone. A thick canary yellow throw pillow kept him comfortably propped up. His hands roamed over the material of the sofa, eyes closing. Beneath the aroma of coffee grounds, he picked up on hints of honey and jasmine. He cupped himself, biting his lip. The alleyway had done her a disservice in covering up her personal scents. He’d gotten whiffs of it, but not enough to identify them. Not enough to _commit_ them to memory.

He could feel his cock firming up. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and stood, swaying slightly. As much as he wanted to take the moment in, he wanted to see the rest of her apartment and he preferred to do so without a stiff dick getting in the way.

The record collection was the next thing to catch his eye. Four shelves were full of more albums than he could count, exposed through a glass window. The structure itself was tall and bulky with a wide roof spilling over the sides of the shelves. This allowed it to house both her television and her record player.

He knelt onto the soft shag carpet and made himself comfortable.

For the next half hour he busied himself with flipping through Fiona’s record collection, beginning at the lowest shelf. This level seemed to carry the most foreign groups to him. _Iggy Pop & The Stooges. Iron Butterfly. Jimi Hendrix Experience. _He felt out of his element at not recognizing any of the bands and just the tiniest bit insecure. He thrived on all that connected Fiona to him, music included, but his lack of knowledge made him feel disconnected. Like he didn’t have access into her world.

_It doesn’t have to be that way._

He got up, _Surrealistic Pillow _by Jefferson Airplane clutched in his hand. After replacing someone named Nina Simone, he threw the record on.

His foot started tapping at the upbeat melody, backing away with a sashay, letting the rhythm flow through him.  
  
_**Everyday I try so hard to know your mind**_  
_** And find out what’s inside you**_  
_** Time goes on and I don’t know just where you are**_  
_** Or how I’m going to find you**_

His shoulders rolled back as he shimmied in place. His arms extended dramatically before he twirled around and shook his hip aggressively in one direction, and then the other. He lost himself utterly to the guitars and vocals, returning to a standstill only when the song tapered off.

“Not bad at all.”

With renewed vigor, he sank back down, cross legged, eager to tackle the rest of her collection.

Only when he reached the top shelf did his heart start to soar. _Frank Sinatra. Dean Martin. Judy Garland_. _The Supremes_. _Elvis Presley_.

He snapped a photo of them all.

Making sure the albums were slid back in exactly as he’d found them, Jefferson Airplane included, he stood. Perhaps the sweet concoction he’d drank earlier was to blame, but he felt light and not nearly as heavy-hearted as he normally did. He almost wished Fiona would come home right now. He had so many music-related questions to pester her with, so much dancing to get to.

_When we’re finally together, there will be all the time in the world._

He brought a hand to his mouth and chuckled into it, rocking back and forth for a few seconds. It still didn’t seem real that she could be his.

After the last of the laughter seeped out, he wandered over to her window ledge. She had two windows evenly spaced apart on the brick wall, covered by white blinds. He peeked through them and found himself overlooking an empty, beaten up lot.

His gaze skipped down to the tawny brown banjo posed against the ledge. Its strings were a little worn, curled slightly at the headstock. A sticker carrying Willie Nelson’s face was stuck to the body. A blue pick sat on the window ledge.

He knelt again, snapping a photo. His legs gave way into an Indian-styled position as he picked up the banjo and examined it closer. One hand wrapped around the neck, thumb flicking forward to hit the string. A _twang_ was his reward. He repositioned the instrument into his lap, holding it like Elvis Presley did his guitar. Content, he strummed for a few moments, wishing Fiona was here to play it properly. Teach him. If he learned, they could play together…play at their wedding maybe.

He clutched the banjo close to his chest, closing his eyes. Without thinking, he leaned toward the neck and kissed the strings and fret, imagining her fingers were beneath his lips.

“_Hmm_,” he hummed happily.

Satisfied, he reperched the instrument, attention straying to the other window ledge. Hung from the ceiling of each window were two potted plants sheltering some of the most colorful flowers he’d ever seen. They were in healthy shape, informing him she tended to them well.

He hadn’t a clue what kind they were, only that they bulbed out from a lengthy stem into a mix of white, fuchsia, and an orange that almost hurt his eyes to look at. The colors bled into each other. He lifted a hand to touch the one nearest to him, level with his head. His fingers stroked the petals softly.

_How can she reach these?_

He had his answer a moment later. Near his feet was a folded-up step stool. He guessed she also used it to reach her top cabinets in the kitchen. The thought amused him. When they finally moved in together, she wouldn’t need it anymore. He’d gladly assist her with any height-limiting tasks.

After snapping a photo of the banjo and the flowers, he tilted his head thoughtfully. Before he could talk himself out of it - he’d been adamant in disturbing nothing in his inspection of her place – Arthur reached up and plucked out one of the multi-colored petals. He brushed the petal across his cheek once before slipping it into the pocket that didn’t hold the accumulating photos.

His final stop in the living room was at her work desk. It was a deep mahogany color with two drawers on either side. Pencils were scattered on top of the desk as well as faxes containing her store’s annual sales, a list of her employees, and an inventory list of everything her store carried. Little footnotes had been made on each sheet of paper. A pair of black-rimmed glasses were discarded on top. He tried them on, barely able to see out of them, but filing this information away. He snapped a photo before pulling open the drawer nearest to him.

His heart leapt at upon finding her address book and daily planner. He quickly thumbed it open, jumping to today’s date.

_Talk to Dale about maybe? laying off Mick…liability. Store can’t handle half-attempt employees._

_Call Viv…see if her building has any apartment vacancies. _

_Call Petey…see if he’ll let The Crawlers in on Jazz festival weekend next month._

_Try to find the will not to strangle my customers…work in progress…ha ha ha_

He smiled at this last note. It was far less lonely knowing she wasn’t immune to the general public’s uncivility.

_All she has to do is tell me who and I’ll take care of it._

He flipped back to the address book portion, amazed to see three pages filled with contacts. Upon a closer look at their descriptions, he realized most were bar and music venue owners. When his eyes located the name Lucien “Lou” Lutheford, he frowned. Lou’s phone and home address glared at him. Arthur glared back, wanting nothing more than to rip out the page and burn it. He refrained with a barely contained reluctance. Another name that caught his eye was Evelyn Kiehl. She had been the reason Fiona was so upset the night she phoned. This woman had said nothing but unkind and hurtful things to his sweet girl.

_She’ll be taken care of…in time._

He photographed each page of contacts as well as her jotted down schedule for the rest of the week.

The bathroom was his next destination. Smaller than his own, it carried the bare essentials: shower, toilet, and a pedestal sink with a noticeable chip on the base. After snapping a photo, he wandered in. Her mirror was one that could be opened, so, he did, examining the contents on the shelves.

Mascara, lipstick tubes, eyeshadow, and blush were the first items his eyes located. He snatched a tube of lipstick that was a fiery shade of red. Uncapping it, he examined himself in the mirror, slowly applying it to his own lips. His hand shook a little as he thought about how often her mouth must have touched it.

Once his lips were properly filled in, he turned a little to peek over his shoulder, sweeping his hair back. He aimed his sultriest look at his reflection.

“’Sup. Oh this? Just a little something I threw on. You like it?”

“_I love it_,” he responded in his best impression of Fiona’s voice. “_Look like a mighty fine gentleman. Can’t wait to kiss it off of ya.”_

“Go wild, peaches. But you have to let me return the favor.”

“_Of course, Arthur, ‘xpect nothin’ more_.”

Another fit of giggles overcame him. When it was over, he re-capped the lipstick and returned it to its position.

He scanned over the remaining items, brow furrowing upon locating a pack of condoms. His molars ground together hard enough to make his jaw ache.

Snatching the box, he eyed it, fury ebbing somewhat to find it unopened.

He’d been so convinced she didn’t have anyone in her life that even considering the opposite was enough to activate some of his more repressed emotions. That anyone but him had access to her in such an intimate way filled him with a deep-seeded rage. He would without question remove anyone from her life that thought her body was theirs for the taking. It wasn’t. It was _his_.

Exhaling as calmly as he could, he set the condoms back in their position, choosing not to linger on their presence too much for his own sanity.

A razor blade, chap stick, and bottle of aspirin were the other items of interest. When he detected a small bottle of body lotion, he immediately grabbed it. Uncapping it, he brought it to his nose. An unintelligible groan escaped his mouth. It was the same scents he smelled on the sofa, only amplified. He could feel his cock stirring the deeper he sniffed. Unable to help it, he squeezed a healthy glob out and rubbed it into his hands. And then into his neck and shoulders and whatever other exposed body part he could get it on. Honey and jasmine. He wouldn’t mind smelling it the rest of his life.

Returning the lotion, he snapped a hasty photo of all the shelved contents before pushing the mirror back into place.

On the way to her bedroom he passed a coat closet and snapped the handful of coats and jackets hanging in there, including a leather jacket that he enjoyed picturing her in.

Cracking open the door to her bedroom, his eyes instantly fell onto her bed. Unlike his mother, who insisted on making her bed as soon as she vacated it, Fiona’s was disheveled. A baby blue quilt hung over the end of the mattress while a black comforter was bunched up near the right. Her three pillows were wrinkled and askew.

He wandered forth, flicking on the light. A dresser to his right snagged his attention. His eyes lifted to the framed photographs above it. There were three of them and he had to lean forward to make out the people in each properly.

The one furthest to the left was of Fiona standing with four individuals behind her, each clutching a various instrument. She wore a half smile that he traced fondly with his fingers. The smile disappeared upon noticing a man with a saxophone strapped around his torso, enveloping her in a half hug, beaming from ear to ear. The gesture reeked of something deeper than casual friendship and the same feeling that overcame him in the bathroom, returned full force.

He wanted to yank the photo off its nail and smash it until there was nothing left.

The second photo he examined was of Fiona sitting on the steps of a porch next to a freckled, auburn-haired man not much older than her. There was a comfortable distance between the two which calmed him. They both had their head cocked, arms wrapped around their legs, smiling brightly into the camera with squinted eyes.

The third photo was of Fiona in a graduation cap and gown, biting her lip shyly. A rugged looking, heavily stubbled man wearing a farmer’s cap, had an arm wrapped around her shoulders. He strongly suspected this man to be her father and made it a note to ask her in person.

He snapped a photo of each picture with the exception of the one where she stood with her band. He just…he couldn’t have a physical reminder of someone giving her affection that should have been his to give. But he did memorize every inch of the man’s face, just in case he had to be dealt with when the time came.

Setting the camera on top of her dresser, Arthur’s attention turned to her drawers. He slowly slid open the top one. Three pajama bottoms were the first thing he noticed, followed by a couple of negligees, a fluffy white robe, socks, stockings, tights, bras, and underwear. He knew he shouldn’t, but at this point, he felt entitled. He would see it all on Fiona eventually, what was the harm in taking a closer look?

He picked up a pair of cotton white panties with a small, delicate bow at the front. Her lotion was still seeping into his nostrils, his body intoxicated by her presence despite her absence. He brought the panties to his nose and inhaled, tightening his grip.

_She wouldn’t miss a pair, would she? I could return them to her later. _

He was sorely tempted, but after a few more sniffs and rubs against his cheek, elected not to. As badly as he wanted to, he couldn’t allow her to be tipped off that anyone had ever been in her home. It would make gaining her trust so much more difficult.

With a dejected sigh, he returned them, snapped a photo, and closed the drawer.

The next drawer held mostly t-shirts, blouses and sweatshirts – some t-shirts with the names of bands he recalled seeing in her album collection. He snapped a photo and opened the third drawer. This one housed jeans, khakis, sweatpants, and a pair of black leather pants he wouldn’t have minded seeing her in.

In general, her clothing selection intrigued him. With how infectiously sweet and dainty she appeared, her apparel suggested there was much more of an edge to her than previously assumed. He wasn’t complaining in the slightest. She had seduced him so unconditionally that it only made sense she would have clothes to show off her prowess.

After snapping a photo, he opened the last drawer, kneeling slightly.

At least eight summer dresses were perfectly folded within. Soft pastel colors were the theme it seemed; she had one in a soft rose color, a warm vanilla, a translucent green, a sky blue, a lavender, and a pale yellow, as well as one in a vibrant red with white polka dots all over.

He didn’t want to disturb the care at which she folded them, but desire ultimately won out. He picked up the pale-yellow dress and stood, allowing it to unfurl. It was V-necked with smooth, thin straps and an outlined bust. The hip area dipped in, only to flare back out. He figured it reached just below her knees.

Biting his lip, Arthur envisioned Fiona wearing it. Wearing it for him. Kissing him in it. Letting his hand slide down to cup her ass. Her nipples straining through the fabric to brush against his chest.

His senses were scorched with these images. He found himself gravitating toward her bed, dress grasped tightly.

_It’s already a mess, I doubt she’ll notice._

He crawled into her bed and leaned down near the pillows. With his free hand he took one and buried his face in it. Another groan escaped him. He could smell her shampoo – something floral and spicy. He had tried to keep his mind off how hard his cock was, but couldn’t any longer. It pulsed so hard it ached.

Flipping over, he laid his head down and grabbed at the bunched-up comforter. With a frenzied sigh, he pulled the blanket to him until it was pushed up against his chest. Both legs swung around it as he inhaled again. He bit his lip and then licked the material nearest to his mouth until it was damp.

Slowly, he uncurled his legs and rolled onto his back. With a few shakes to the dress, he positioned it directly overtop him so the chest area was level with his and the hem covered his thighs and knees.

Arthur closed his eyes, unbuttoned his pants, and slid them down low enough to release his cock. One hand enveloped his stiff member, shuddering the moment he did. His opposite arm was wrapped around the back of the dress, pressing it closer and closer into him. He imagined Fiona on top of him, her hand on his cock instead of his. She wore a half smile as she stroked his length, biting her bottom lip until it was plump.

_“Mmmm…so impressive, darlin’. I can’t wait to have that in me.”_

He jerked his hips up as his pace increased.

_“Y’er so good to me, baby. Let me be good to you.”_

He nodded mindlessly, teeth tearing into his lip, increasing the pressure until blood bloomed to the surface. He lapped at it, thumb brushing over the head of his cock as precum dribbled out. The cotton material of Fiona’s dress was bunched into his fingers. It created a delicious friction against his cock.

His fantasy transformed. She was straddling his hips, hands running along her body as he pounded into her. He demanded her attention, so he hooked an arm around her back and yanked her down for a kiss of saliva and teeth. She moaned into his mouth, hips meeting every one of his thrusts until both of their bodies stiffened.

Arthur’s groan drowned out all other noises in the vicinity. He came all over Fiona’s summer dress, physically quaking from the intensity of it. It took some time for his breathing to return to normal, but he wasn’t in any rush to evacuate from his position. He felt…content? This feeling was so fleeting throughout his life he wasn’t sure if that was the name of it. Whatever it was, he allowed himself to bask in it.

Not long after, he started laughing and couldn’t stop for nearly three minutes, soaking her pillow with tears. When he finally regained his breathing, he broke into laughter again.

He stopped eventually, long enough to question himself as to what brought it all on. Usually, the source of it was predictable.

_I would do anything for her._

That was exactly it. He would, no questions asked. And he found it funny because it took him thirty-something odd years to finally understand what Frank crooned about, half-convinced he never would. He laughed out of relief, out of euphoria, out of a rightness that had finally been done to him.

He would do anything for Fiona because he loved her unconditionally. He suspected those had been his feelings, but being in her apartment and learning about her in such an intimate way…there was no longer any doubt.

His first order of business was cleaning up Fiona’s dress and repositioning her bed in the same state of disarray he had found it. A part of him was saddened he couldn’t take the dress with him, but he got over it, recognizing he needed to let things play out just a little bit longer.

His second order of business was finding out who his sweet girl’s biggest competitor was as far as record stores went. Between what she revealed on the phone, what he’d glimpsed himself watching her, and the notes in her address book…he knew his intervention would aid her tremendously. If that meant someone else conveniently going out of business so she could flourish, so fucking be it.

His last order of business was dropping by this…Lucien’s place. Now that everything was clear to him, he felt compelled to do what was necessary to make sure what was his remained his. And Fiona was his, even if she didn’t know it yet. Even if she hadn’t agreed to it. Today had been every bit as important as he thought it would be. He saw what he needed to do, he just needed to be patient a little bit longer, and eventually, everything would fall into place.

A half hour later and he was strolling out of Fiona’s apartment, whistling as he went. A maintenance man stepped out of the elevator as he got on. He threw Arthur a severely perplexed look. He didn’t understand the nature of it until the doors had shut and he saw his red-lipped reflection staring back.

And this set off another spell of laughter he was sure the entire building heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this out Friday, but it wasn't nearly polished enough and I got offered a ride to the largest haunted house in my state. One of the workers was a mad scientist type wearing Ledger's Joker's face paint. I couldn't stop giggling whenever he passed by, so he got in my face and asked me what was so funny. And I told him I liked his smile. And he immediately moved on to another person. Pretty sure I scared him aha! Also, we found a puddle of urine about thirty minutes in, in one of the rooms. Friendly reminder not to drink water or tea before going into a haunted house!!
> 
> I have increased the rating now to Mature. Partly because Arthur was a big ole creep in this chapter and partly in preparation of things to come. I was having a discussion with one my readers about how I'm a sucker for obsessive love stories. Even the crappy movies on Lifetime, I'll risk a viewing. I'm always looking to see it reinterpreted in a different way. 
> 
> What makes writing Arthur's obsession so interesting is that it comes from a place of...innocence almost? In a lot of obsessive love interpretations, the person experiencing this is often crazy already. There's not really a descent, just an acceleration, usually ending with them trying to kill the object of their affection (overdone IMO).  
With Arthur, due to his childlike nature and his medication keeping him in check, his obsession does genuinely come from a place of love. Or what he thinks is love. And that makes detesting him more complex because a part of you is rooting for him to get what he deserves. With his transition into Joker, his obsession is almost a conglomeration of innocence and a grown man's ego.  
Poor Fiona never stood a chance :'( 
> 
> Thank you for the kind feedback and encouragement you all have offered me as we journey deeper into this story. Anytime I get frustrated with a chapter or unmotivated to write, I re-read the comments and look at the kudos and it lights a fire under my ass to keep going. It has genuinely been a delight writing for you all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Arthur’s POV**

He shuffled nervously in place, sucking the soul out of his fifth successive cigarette. Night had blanketed Gotham with a vengeance and the only persons out and about near his apartment building were of the ill-intent type. Generally, these sorts of persons let him be. He reckoned they knew he was a resident of the area. No point in robbing or hassling the already destitute.

No, targets in this area tended to be the well-dressed or hopelessly lost. Those unfamiliar with their surroundings who looked like they could comfortably afford a three-course meal.

Arthur’s gaze currently flickered to a man across the street he often passed when he’d ran out of cigarettes late at night and went out to replenish. The individual was taller than him, clad in a wife-beater displaying his bulging muscles, and a worn, brown leather jacket. He wore black leather boots with silver spikes jutting out of them. A few times in passing, Arthur swore he detected specs of blood on them.

The man never smiled, lips permanently set in an unwelcome sneer. Most distinctive about him was his shaven head that bore on the back a black-inked swastika. Residents in the area knew to steer clear of him, and the only persons Arthur had ever witnessed interacting with him looked to be the sorts of people whose ideologies matched his.

Where he primarily hung around was inside an unlit, janky former bus stop that had long ago been abandoned. The city discontinued the route in the mid-70’s, citing a lack of funding, though he suspected the high-crime of the area was the real culprit. The glass of the structure was coated in dust and grime, and more than a few bullet holes riddled the structure.

Arthur tried to be discrete in his glances over, but the last one he shot was met head on.

“Got a fucking problem?”

The shout startled him, causing the half-lit cigarette to drop from his fingers.

Sensing playing coy would no longer do him any good, Arthur trudged across the street, hands buried in his pockets. He wouldn’t normally associate with unsavory individuals like these, but he had a task to accomplish and he was almost certain this man could help. At least that’s what word on the street had always been. He went by the name Stag and for a price, he was willing to get his hands dirty so you didn’t have to.

Before he even had a chance to take a step onto the sidewalk, Stag grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and flung him into the bus stop. His shoulder blades struck the glass and if he wasn’t so used to enduring abuse, the strike might have been painful.

A switchblade was at his throat before he could blink.

“I-hi. Sorry,” he wheezed out, faltering slightly under the aggressive stare. “I-was hoping uh you could…help me.”

The man’s glare didn’t lessen any, but mercifully he didn’t press the blade any deeper.

“You the clown with the condition?” He re-examined Arthur, sliding the tip of the blade to his chin. “Momma’s boy, ain’t ya?”

Arthur’s fingers twitched. Though easily out muscled, he couldn’t deny wanting to strangle the man until his cocky smirk was wiped from his face.

“Y-yeah,” he breathed out. “I um-.”

He blanked momentarily on what to say. Up until the last hour, his thoughts had been devoted to Fiona and her apartment. Hours later and he still caught whiffs of her lotion, nearly extinguished from his skin.

_I need to focus. He won’t help me unless I give him a reason too._

“I-I was always too afraid to talk to you.” He relied on his tentative nature to make this statement sound believable. “But the um…the tattoo on the back of your head. I-I _get_ it.”

The brutish man peered at him closer, gaze narrowing. The tension could be cut with a knife, pun _not_ intended.

“You a member?”

Arthur blinked.

“No. I um…I don’t like needles.”

He finally retracted the blade from his throat, hacking up a wad of phlegm and assaulting the pavement with it.

“Don’t strike me as the type,” he admitted. “But always good to meet another guy that gets it. This city’s been overrun and infiltrated by mutts and spooks. God damn pussies in charge won’t do nothing about it.”

Arthur nodded, massaging his throat.

“T-there’s um…there’s a shop north-east of here,” he said. “The owner is…different. Not like you or me. I can barely pass there without getting sick.”

These words nauseated him to say, but he kept remembering the bigger picture. Adaptability was key in getting what he wanted. In this case, he needed to play upon this thug’s ignorance.

Stag spat down at the pavement again, slipping out a cigarette from his jacket pocket.

“I um…I would do something about it myself, but I…”

He searched for the words, but the man answered for him.

“Don’t have the balls yet, do you?” He lit his cigarette before offering him the lighter. Arthur accepted it, lighting up one of his own.

“No,” he said. “I don’t. I uh…I was wondering if you’d…if I could maybe…pay you to…”

Again, the man answered for him. _It’s almost too easy_, Arthur thought, fighting down a smirk.

“Need me to take care of him?”

He shook his head, taking a long drag.

“No…that um…won’t be necessary. I…just need you to…make sure he doesn’t have a business to return to tomorrow morning.”

The conviction in which he voiced the last part had the man eying him thoughtfully.

Not wishing to betray his intent, Arthur kept his gaze glued to his shoes.

“What you thinking?”

His shrug was casual.

“I dunno…a fire would be cool.”

“Mmm…” He was silent for a long moment, burning through the rest of his cigarette. “I can do that.”

Arthur’s shoulders drooped with relief.

“I um…I don’t have much to pay you.”

The man shrugged.

“Cover the charge of what I need and we’ll be square. Between you and I.” He leaned into him, voice descending. “I’d be willing to do it for free if it meant one less of their businesses in this city. But ya know times are tough.”

“I get it,” he said quietly, finally lifting his eyes to meet his. “How much do you need?”

“Fifty bucks should do it.”

The amount was cheaper than he anticipated, but he didn’t let on to this. He reached into his coat pocket and slid out two crumpled twenties and a ten. The man extended his hand and wrapped it around Arthur’s, making it look to any passerbyer that they were exchanging a handshake. His fingers slipped the cash from his hand, bunching it up into a fist.

“Address?”

“57 West Holtz Avenue. It’s um…in Gotham’s east business district. It’s called Rocco’s Record Shop.”

“Been in the area, consider it done.”

“Thank you.”

Without another word, Stag tossed his lit cigarette to the ground and walked away.

Arthur couldn’t hold back his smile in lieu of his departure. He hoped one day he’d be able to tell Fiona of what he had done for her. Of how far he was willing to go to ensure she led a stress-free life. Sure, the means he went about may not please her initially, but it was the thought that counted, right?

“Right,” he confirmed under his breath, grinning at no one in particular.

The next morning saw Arthur traveling north. Stuffed in his pocket was one of the photos he’d snapped of Fiona’s address book contacts. Today, he would scout out Lou Lutheford and see if he was a problem that warranted a solution. He honestly wanted to do nothing more than watch his sweet girl work again, but there would be time for that later.

Upon locating the photograph’s address, Arthur lit a cigarette and relaxed against the brick exterior of a Chinese restaurant across the street. Ahead of him sat fifteen rowhomes that looked like they had seen better days. There wasn’t any garbage bags strewn about, which informed him the man was financially better off than either himself or Fiona.

As he waited for the man with the dreadlocks, Arthur lost himself in thought.

When they finally got together, he would no doubt have to tell Fiona he was the one who shot the wall street pricks. He wanted her to see him as he was. As he was capable of being. And for as kindly as she treated him, he suspected murder wasn’t something she would as easily accept. Even if it was in self-defense.

He constructed a few scenarios of how this conversation would go, pacing as he did so.

_“Yeah, so those wall street guys? I shot them. And it felt good.”_

He shook his head.

_“Fiona…you know I love you. I did something that might scare you, but it had to be done. Scum like that is why Gotham is the way it is.”_

He shook his head again, flicking his bottom lip with his thumbnail.

_“I was coming home one night, and they were harassing a woman. You know about my condition? They harassed me too. And I just…I snapped.”_

“No,” he muttered, brows furrowing. “Not snapped. She might think I’m crazy.”

He giggled at this. Killing the trio was one of the sanest moments of his life. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t one of his favorite memories to return to.

“Fiona,” he voiced, eyes glued to a street sign. “I shot those wall street guys because I was tired of being tormented by people who think they’re better than everyone else. If you had been in there with them, you would have understood why I did it. They were no good. I did this city a favor.”

He nodded, semi-content with this. It would all depend of course on her mood in the given moment. He would have to make sure she was in a pleasant one. Maybe after she had been drinking a little seeing as she turned into an affectionate little minx while under the influence.

A taxi cab drew his attention to the sidewalk outside the rowhomes. He watched as the man who had been hugging Fiona in one of her framed photos, stepped out. Behind him followed a thin, curly-haired woman that looked to be the same age.

“Keep the change,” Lou insisted with a wide smile.

The duo were holding hands, which eased Arthur slightly. As the cab pulled away, he tugged her into his body and wrapped both arms around her. She chuckled at the gesture before accepting a deep kiss from him.

_Good. That’s…that’s good._

They continued kissing for a few seconds longer before making their way to one of the rowhouses. Arthur didn’t care to linger much longer, feet already carrying him in the direction of the bus stop. It appeared for now the man wasn’t someone who needed to be dealt with, though the faint embers of jealousy still sizzled within him at the close nature of his and Fiona’s friendship. He had to keep reminding himself it was only a matter of time before he had that too.

But seeing Lou and his lady friend embrace so intimately had him longing to experience the same thing. How freeing it would be to be able to touch, to kiss, to shower Fiona with affection wherever they were. To hold her hand or cuddle her to him in a dimly lit restaurant, whispering sweet nothings in her ear. He knew he needed to be patient, but as each day passed, that patience waned. He yearned to have what had been denied to him for so long.

On the way to the bus stop, Arthur stopped at a generously-sized video store. Like most businesses he entered, he was barely spared a glance. In this case, he was thankful for the anonymity. Shoved near the back of the store was what he was looking for: the adult films section.

Lusty, come-hither gazes on the cover of the tapes, beckoned him closer, but he remained in place. Prior to meeting Fiona, he wouldn’t have ever stopped to examine the salacious material. Not because he didn’t want to or that he didn’t have urges needing to be met, but because the idea of being caught by someone who knew him – while very unlikely – would have embarrassed him greatly. It shouldn’t, the videos existed for a reason. But explaining to someone else that he needed personal time to blow off some steam because he was a luckless virgin in his mid-30’s was not a conversation he ever wanted to have.

Now, however…now was different. He didn’t doubt someone as beautiful as his dear girl had had her fair share of sexual encounters. And if he was to be with her, he needed to learn how to keep her pleased. How to give her the sort of orgasms that had her quaking in his bed, weeping for more. He wanted badly to be a thorough and generous lover to her. Not just for their mutual pleasure, but so she didn’t think for a second to seek sexual comfort elsewhere. If she ever did, it would be a death blow to his ego. Plus, he would have to kill whoever this other person was, which didn’t bother him, but would most likely bother her.

Unsure where to start, Arthur elected to read the back-cover descriptions. After a fifteen-minute perusal, he selected the five whose main actresses most resembled his _fianc_-his dear girl. One intrigued him more than the others. Rather than a man and woman gracing the cover, it was two women erotically embraced in an almost kiss.

Personally, women getting each other off didn’t do much for him. Not like it did to Randall, who had a few lesbian erotica magazines stuffed in his locker. He himself liked a male presence so he could substitute himself in their place.

But upon examining the two women, he wondered who knew better to pleasure a woman than another woman? Perhaps they could teach him things that a man couldn’t. How to be more delicate, more in tune to the wants and needs of his partner.

He expected to feel nervous upon handing the tapes over to the video clerk but wasn’t in the slightest. It was all for a necessary cause, after all. To expand his understanding of what would get Fiona off and utilize what he learned. This was something that had been missing his entire life. A reason. Now that he had one, very little phased him anymore.

With a pep in his step, Arthur exited the video store.

It would take nearly two days before he saw Fiona again. News anchors informed him that Thomas Wayne would be attending a viewing of old Charlie Chaplin flicks outside one of Gotham’s best theatres, which was quickly surrounded by rapidly growing protesters. He longed to see her again, especially in light of watching the films he’d rented and the voracious amount of fantasies conceived in the hours after. But he also needed to get crucial information regarding his parentage. Work first, then play.

The encounter didn’t go the way he anticipated and succeeded only in filling him with a ruthless loathing for Thomas Wayne that when not prompting outbursts of rancorous laughter, had him simmering with ideas on how to hurt the man. Each scenario was more graphic than the last. He thought he had been done feeling humiliated, but Thomas Wayne ensured this wasn’t to be.

He was a recluse in his apartment for most of Thursday, tending to his bruised feelings and constantly stroking his gun. It was only when he succumbed to a restless nap that barely lasted two hours did he decide to head out to see Fiona. Seeing her would calm him, he knew. Remind him what he had to look forward to.

It was dark by the time he perched himself across the street from her record shop. From what he remembered of her hours, she had just closed. He was thankful he hadn’t missed her, though she remained inside for a solid twenty minutes, appearing to be focused on bookkeeping. He wondered if she knew yet about her competitor’s business going up in flames. He had glimpsed the story on the way over in a newspaper, delighted that Stag followed through for him.

An unfamiliar woman caught his attention. She was stalking down the sidewalk and even from this distance he could tell she was well-off. It was the posture she walked with. Head held high, backbone straight, nestled tightly in an expensive looking coat. His curiosity peaked when she stopped outside of Fiona’s store and knocked on the door. Judging by Fiona’s expression, she wasn’t all too thrilled to see the individual. Nevertheless, she unlocked the door and let the woman in.

Arthur wanted to get closer but refrained. It would be a very comprising position to be caught in and he wasn’t sure he could talk himself out of it. All his planning would be for nothing if she caught him now.

So, he was forced to observe the pair from a distance, becoming antsier as Fiona’s expression shifted from barely held back disdain to confusion to distress as she read the contents of a file the woman had given her. Though the woman tried offering her a comforting hand to the shoulder, he could tell it did little to quell the emotional turbulence Fiona was experiencing. His arms were twitching to the point of pain, so strong was his urge to hold and console her.

_I can just tell her I was in the neighborhood. Or that I remembered where she worked and decided to stop by. _

Not long after the woman slipped out of the store and Arthur was momentarily torn. Comfort or pursue?

He opted on the latter only because this woman had clearly upset his girl and he needed to know who she was.

She walked briskly through a gradually thinning sidewalk, which kept him in a careful pace behind her, not wishing to draw her attention, but unwilling to lose her.

It was when she turned a corner into a parking lot that he hastened his steps.

He nearly had a heart-attack upon finding the woman waiting for him around the corner, arms crossed and expression severe.

“Who are you?”

She voiced this coldly, her unyielding gaze keeping him petrified in place.

“I saw you across the street when I entered Fiona’s store. I won’t ask again. Who are you?”

In a second, he was reduced to a stammering mess.

“I-I’m uh I’m-.” He thankfully had the foresight to not use his real name. “-_Mitch_. I’m a friend of Fiona’s.”

“If you’re a friend why were you lurking in the shadows?”

He looked down, feeling his cheeks redden.

“I was going to come in,” he managed out, glancing at her. “But you got there before I could.”

She eyed him with such a severe skepticism that he momentarily considered killing the woman there and then. From his quick scan, they were the only two occupants of the parking lot and he knew he could do it short and sweet. Muggings gone wrong were hardly a nuance anymore.

Instead, he asked the question that had been burning him.

“What did you say to her?” He wanted to approach but thought better of it. “She was nearly crying. What did you say that hurt her so much?”

She momentarily lost her tough composure, seemingly taken aback at his forwardness. Her eyes dropped to the ground.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” she answered tightly.

“It is my concern,” he responded just as strongly. “She’s my friend. When she hurts, I hurt. I won’t ask _you_ again. What did you say?”

“It really is none of your business,” she snapped, meeting his glare dead-on.

He meant to continue arguing when it hit him.

The prestigious air about her. The finely tailored clothing. The quick, stern way in which she spoke.

“You’re Fiona’s mother.”

Her gaze dropped again.

“You’re the one who has treated her so awfully since she got here. The reason she called me in tears after you left her apartment.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“It was a miscommunication,” came the less composed answer.

“No it wasn’t,” he denied, shaking his head. “She’s one of the few decent people left in this city and you treated her like dirt. Why?”

Anger resurged in him like a slumbering dragon. His fingers itched to wrap around her neck and squeeze until she was a lifeless lump on the pavement.

The only reason he didn’t was because of who she was. Not Fiona’s mother, but a city prosecutor. Her death wouldn’t be swept away so easily. There would be an investigation and he had a very good chance of being caught. And that simply wouldn’t do if he had any hope of a future with Fiona.

But God was the urge to kill her intense. It nearly had his jaws aching.

_When I do it, it will be thought out and meticulous. I can’t afford to be sloppy about it._

This thought eased him slightly.

Fiona’s mother maintained her silence, which irked him more than he could express. She could dish it out but couldn’t take it.

_Hypocrite. These are the people running Gotham. It’s enough to make anyone sick. _

“My relationship with my daughter, no matter what she has told you, isn’t any of your concern,” she reaffirmed, steelier than before. “Fiona’s friend or not, if I catch you lurking like that ever again you will be lucky to see sunlight. Have I made myself clear?”

He couldn’t contain his laughter, hands flying to cover his mouth. His entire body shook, not just from his condition, but from the discipline it took not to lunge at the woman.

“Y-yes,” he stuttered out, panting through his fingers. “Yes, you have made yourself _very_ clear.”

He could tell she wanted to say more, perhaps question him on his mental stability. He almost dared her to. She was a vile, vile woman who sought to keep him from his fiancé. She deserved only the most agonizing of deaths. When the time came, he would be sure to oblige her.

She spared him a final glance of contempt before stalking away, leaving him to ponder on all the ways to make this woman suffer. And boy oh boy would she.

***

**Fiona’s POV**

“You’re kiddin’, Fi.”

“Wish I was,” she sighed, flopping down on her sofa. “She had my official birth certificate. And it makes sense why she’s been so distant toward me.”

Lou’s response through the receiver was muffled. She waited a moment.

“You gonna tell y’er brother?”

“Eventually. It’s a conversation I wanna have in person, not over the phone. I want him to see the physical documents so he don’t think I’m just yankin’ him ‘round.”

“It’s a lot to process,” he agreed. “Ya gonna take y’er Ma up on her offer for dinner?”

Fiona grimaced. While her mother had seemed sincere in wanting to rekindle their strained relationship, the snide comments and gutting insults she’d been subjected to since arriving in Gotham had her hesitating. This was a relationship she was willing to mend, that much was true. How quickly that mending would take place was another story.

She didn’t consider herself a vindictive person. Sure, in the moment the hurt was real and the accompanying emotions made it difficult to have perspective. But she was a firm believer in time healing all wounds…provided those wounds weren’t fatally inflicted. Now that the air was cleared between them and her own shock was subsiding (a few sips of moonshine may have helped), she came to the conclusion that their relationship was worth another shot. If this time around proved as unsuccessful as the previous attempts, then that would be the end of it. No third chances.

“Eventually,” she repeated. “Honestly Lou, I think I need a day or two off. I’m feelin’ drained and emotionally, a little hysterical. I’m afraid I’m gonna go off on a customer. Or on you.”

“Josie know how to manage the store?”

“She does, I’ve trained her on opening and closing enough times.”

“Then do what’s best for you, Fi. If that means takin’ some time t’a get back t’a a hundred, do it. Ain’t nothin’ worth y’a havin’ a nervous breakdown over.”

Soothed by these words, she voiced her thanks.

“Oh, forgot t’a mention. I’m havin’ a lil party Sunday evenin’. Would love it if ya could stop by. I uh…I got a gal I want ya to meet.”

“Ya have a girlfriend and didn’t tell me?” she playfully scolded.

“Didn’t wanna announce nothin’ unless it was serious. It’s uh…it’s gettin’ there. Think y’all would get on well.”

“Well in that case I can’t say no. Consider me there.”

“Swell soundin’, thanks Fi. Take care and get some rest.”

She smiled as she hung up, relieved for the hundredth time to have such a supportive friend in her corner.

After a brief glance at the clock, she dialed Josie’s number, hoping she was still up. She would work tomorrow if need be, but Lou was right…she needed to do some emotional recuperation so as to avoid a public meltdown. A day or two of lounging around, recultivating her inner calm would do the mind, body, and soul good.

Josie answered after three rings and after a brief explanation on why she needed some time off, agreed to work the next couple of days.

“Thank ya kindly, Jos. I ‘ppreciate ya.”

By the time she hung up, midnight was only a couple minutes away.

She poured herself another glass of moonshine, gathered the blankets from her bedroom, and cozied up on the sofa, cocooning herself in a burrito of warmth. She was ecstatic to see a rerun of _Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood_ playing and lazily discarded the remote on the floor. Perhaps juvenile of her, but she loved watching Fred Rogers. He was a staple of both her child and adulthood, always equipped with a viewpoint that served to reinforce her own morals whenever she felt defeated. Namely, being kind to others. Her favorite quote of his was to look for the helpers. Sometimes, they were difficult to find, which only bolstered the initiative to be one.

His wise advice soothed her and not long after, she fell into a peaceful rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long it took to get this chapter out. The last one was pretty divisive and my confidence in the direction I was taking this story, faltered a bit. But a very thoughtful comment from TchallaForever (thank you) got my ass back into gear, so, hopefully the updates will be a tad more frequent. Thank you again for your guys's support, it means a lot to me :' )


	7. Chapter 7

Fiona spent her two days off caught between relaxing and combating a pesky form of restlessness. It wasn’t until she had free time at her disposal did she realize how strange it felt not being productive in some way, be it the store or managing The Crawlers schedule. To not have any immediate obligations, while undoubtedly nice, made her feel slightly antsy. Like there was something important she needed to tend to but didn’t know what.

To pass her time, she spruced up her apartment with the aid of John Coltrane in the background. After completing this, she went through her coat closet and dresser, pulling out anything that no longer enthused her to wear. This mainly consisted of a few blouses, a couple of bell bottom jeans, a pair of khakis, a black blazer, and a polka dot summer dress that had always been slightly too tight around her midsection and had yet to be worn in her time in Gotham. She packaged these clothes into a black garbage bag and set the bag beside her front door. Winter was but a few months away and she had been meaning to donate some of her clothes to a homeless shelter she passed on the way to work.

Inspired by Coltrane’s hectic brass playing, she took out an unused notebook and sat cross-legged on the rug of her living room with a pencil. Something else she had been meaning to do in her free time, but never got around to was try her hand at songwriting. In high school she was part of her band’s wind instrument section. Though a little rusty, she could still read and comprehend sheet music. She’d never written any of her own before but couldn’t think of a better time to give it a shot.

For three hours she alternated between plucking the chorus of a few gospel songs on her banjo and playing a rusty, stripped down version of Elvis Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel”. Sadly, she was about as vocally talented as a mewling litter of kittens, so she took to humming instead of singing.

Despite being well-versed on the banjo and a fiddle she’d left behind at her father’s home, she never considered herself a musician. If there was a style she sought to emulate it would have to be a breed of the mournfulness she always felt resided in gospel music and the franticness of bluegrass.

By the time her fingers began to ache, she had a rough draft of a song she tentatively titled “Postmortem Blues”. She envisioned herself as a deceased former entertainer in the vein of Billie Holiday, playing the tune on a warm, Southern night where the air was sticky and the moon was bright. She was perched on her own tombstone, plucking the tune in a cemetery that hadn’t been tended to in a long time, resulting in the grass running up to your knees.

“Here lies Delphine Waters,” she murmured with closed eyes, imagining herself in a tattered, white summer dress, wavy locks blowing in the breeze. “She lived like she loved. Blindly and wildly. If ya listen closely on the night of a full moon, ya can still hear the echo of her unbridled sorrows. Be sure not to linger too long…or risk lyin’ down ‘n the grass for a gentle, permanent rest.”

She smiled at the thought. Not that she wasn’t content with her own identity and all that she’d accomplished thus far. Gotham had been a needed adventure that pushed her to go after what she wanted and endure more than she thought herself capable of.

But there were times when she wasn’t surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the city that she missed home and the life she could have made for herself had she stayed behind. Granted, she’d most likely never had had a chance to run a record store or manage a band, but she didn’t doubt she wouldn’t have found her own way and create a legacy to be proud of.

Sometimes, it was nice to imagine you were still you, just an alternate version.

Satisfied with what she managed to get out, Fiona tossed the notebook onto her desk and strapped her machete holster to her waist. After throwing on her bomber jacket, she picked up the garbage bag and exited her apartment.

As the elevator doors popped open, Eleanor and Lizzie were coming out, clutching their mail and a gourmet cooking magazine. She smiled softly at them, and they grinned at each other before dousing her with a look of utter mischief.

“What?” she asked, chuckling at their expressions.

“Just waiting for our invitations,” Eleanor said.

She tilted her head.

“Invitations?”

“No need to be coy, sweetheart,” Lizzie pitched in. “We are very happy for you. He’s a nice man. A little unusual looking, but nice all the same.”

“You don’t have to give it to us this second,” Eleanor assured. “After all, young love makes us absent minded. But we want to be there for you on your special day.”

Before she could question them further, the ladies wove around her and ambled back to their apartment.

She stared after them, thoroughly perplexed. Granted, the two women were up there in years, but in all previous interactions with the sisters, Fiona hadn’t suspected dementia or delusion to be present. Their bodies may have been frail, but their minds were sharp.

“Invitations to what?” she mumbled to herself.

When the elevator doors dinged back open, she got on, choosing to leave this mystery until she encountered the women again. As absurd as the thought was, the women made it sound like she was betrothed to someone.

_Maybe my jar of moonshine. _

She smiled crookedly at this, wondering if marrying a liquor bottle was legal in this part of the country.

After dropping off the bag of clothes to a gracious nun that ran the homeless shelter four blocks from her apartment building, she stopped by the grocery store to pick up some food, toilet paper, and shampoo.

Her journey home was uneventful and for a meal that night she made scrambled eggs and bacon with sliced peaches. A part of her wanted to call the store to make sure everything had run smoothly, but she didn’t want to make Josie feel like she doubted her abilities.

The next day went just as leisurely as the first. She worked a little more on “Postmortem Blues”, did a load of laundry – for some reason she detected whiffs of tobacco on her blankets whenever she pulled them close, but attributed it to Mick’s chain-smoking that polluted the store anytime he returned from a smoke break. Speaking of, she still needed to talk to Dale about potentially letting him go.

A few times she glanced at the phone number her mother had given her. At one point, she picked up the receiver, fingers hovering over the digits. But she didn’t go through with the call, realizing her wounds were still a little raw. She wasn’t the type to punish someone with passive aggressiveness and that’s exactly what would happen if she tried to extend a hand now.

As she set her receiver down, the phone started to ring. She eyed it suspiciously, wondering if her mother somehow knew she had been planning to call.

“’Lo?”

“Hiya chickadee, how’s it hangin’?”

She relaxed at the voice, plopping down on the sofa.

“Real good, Vance, real good. I’ve got some excitin’ news.”

She told him about her meeting with Kane Kapling and their rendezvous at Grassmere Studios.

He let out a low whistle.

“My baby sister’s gonna be brushin’ shoulders with rock stars ‘fore I know it. You’ll forget all ‘bout me ‘n I’ll die penniless claimin’ t’a know ya while ya count y’er millions in a mansion.”

“Pfft, fat chance,” she chuckled. “’M gonna need someone t’a count my millions for me while I attend parties ‘round the world. I’ll even let ya live with me, so long as ya remember t’a put the toilet seat down after.”

“No promises, chickadee, but I’ll see what I can do.” He cleared his throat. “I got some news for ya too. I uh…I booked me a plane ticket t’a come over y’er way for Thanksgiving. Spend some time with ya and Ma.”

Instinctively, her eyes shot to her desk drawer where her birth certificate lay.

“That sound okay?” he asked. “I can cancel. If y’er still sore with me-.”

“I’m not,” she promised, fiddling with the phone cord. “I just…there’s something I need t’a talk to ya about. But it has t’a be in person, ‘therwise ya might not believe me.”

“Bad somethin’ or good somethin’?”

“Both?” she guessed. “I’d love t’a have ya over, so don’t ya dare cancel. How long ya plannin’ t’a stay?”

“A couple days. It’s all I can afford t’a have off from work, ‘n when I get back I’m havin’ a late Thanksgiving with the missus ‘n her family.”

“Y’er welcome to bring her.”

“She’s gotta work the holiday, but we’re bankin’ on havin’ Christmas at Pa’s. The house is a little dusty ‘n we gotta get the power goin’ again, but it’ll be right as rain ‘fore the twenty-fifth. Was wonderin’ if you and Ma be willin’ t’a fly out.”

“I am…but I dunno about Ma.”

“Yeah, I get it. Kinda awkward t’a have dinner ‘nside y’er ex-husband’s house. If ya could try talkin’ to her ‘bout it…butter her up a bit…let her know her favorite child wants to see her, I’d much ‘ppreciate it. If not, I can try smooth talkin’ her.”

She smiled weakly at his jab about him being the favorite child. If only he knew how spot on he was.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank ya bunches, Fi. Can’t wait t’a see ya.”

“Can’t wait to see ya too.”

She hung up and walked over to her desk. Popping open her address book, she located the calendar and jotted down Vance’s arrival, three weeks from now. Which meant this was how long she had to patch things up with her mother. Not impossible but knowing there was a time limit had her chewing on her lower lip.

For Vance’s sake, she would make an effort. All he wanted to do was spend some much-needed time with his family and she didn’t want to deny him this, even at the risk of her own comfort.

**Arthur’s POV**

He had been hesitant coming by Fiona’s store after last night’s encounter. If her mother was by chance around again and spotted him, he had no doubt she would make good on her threat to call on law enforcement.

But when he arrived at noon, scouring the store as a precaution, he was relieved to see she was nowhere to be found.

What did confuse him was the lack of his fiancé. No matter how long he kept his eyes trained on the figures inside the store, she failed to appear. At first he was nervous. Maybe he’d underestimated the closeness of her and her mother’s relationship. Was it possible Fiona now knew of his presence?

When the nerves subsided, worry took its place. Could something have happened to her? Had she fallen ill? Gotten into an accident? God forbid someone dared lay hands on her. She had a weapon, but it took courage in the moment to use it. He knew better than anyone.

It was a reoccurring thought as of late as he became more comfortable with his own darker musings. Could Fiona do what needed to be done? Was she capable of the violence that ensured self-preservation? He really hoped so. Not just for her sake, but for his too. If she spilled blood out of self-defense, she would be more apt to understand his own actions with the wall street guys.

After an hour of restless pacing he straightened up his shoulders and crossed the street.

The girl at the register was dark-haired and petite with warm bronze skin. Unlike most workers, she didn’t ignore him upon his entrance, greeting him with a smile.

“Hey. If you need any help finding anything let me know.”

He couldn’t keep back his own smile. It was clear the same courtesy Fiona conducted herself with was a requirement in her employees.

“I was actually looking for someone,” he said, approaching the counter. “Fiona works here, right? We had a few banjo sessions a while back and I was hoping to see her about another one. I’m Steven.”

He extended a hand, relieved when she took it without hesitation.

“Yeah Fiona works here,” she said. “But she’s been a little overworked as of late, so she called off today and tomorrow. We’re closed Sunday, but she’ll be back in Monday. I could leave her a message and a number to call you at?”

“That won’t be necessary but thank you. I’ll come by again Monday.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” He cocked his head. “What’s your name?”

Her brows furrowed. He momentarily regretted his forwardness but knew he could assuage her trepidation with the right words.

“It’s uh…kind of rare,” he explained, “getting good customer service. People are spiteful anymore. It’s enough to sicken you.”

“Josie,” she answered, offering him a half-hearted smile. “And you’re right, this city’s on a decline. I try to stay positive…see the world the way Fiona does…but…it’s challenging. I was born here, Fiona wasn’t. She comes from a place where manners are still taught and kindness is expected. Makes you long for that sort of place, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he agreed. “You and Fiona are some of the decent few left in this city.”

“What does that say about Gotham?”

He grimaced.

_Nothing good_, was his thought. _This city and those that run it need a little disorder. A reminder that people like me outnumber people like them._

“You hear about those subway murders?” he asked casually, leaning his elbow onto the counter.

Her face immediately scrunched up.

“Yeah, it was awful. Goes to show no one in Gotham is safe.”

“You think the guy that did it is a hero like the protesters are saying?”

He studied her hard from beneath his lashes, left foot rocking up and down.

“I didn’t until Thomas Wayne’s interview,” she admitted. “Fiona and my co-worker Reggie don’t like him and I didn’t get it at first, but the more I see him speak on TV, the less confidence I have that someone like him can offer actual solutions. Fiona had made this point about a week ago. Why is that the people in positions of power always come from a rich background? Where’s the common person? The one who came from nothing to serve the people? Instead we have the same elites being elected in and nothing changes. In fact, things are getting worse. People lose their faith in the voting system.”

The doorbell to the store, dinged. Josie momentarily averted her attention to greet the newest customer, who shortly after wandered off to the classical music section.

Arthur’s thoughts were running a mile a minute. From what Josie was relaying to him, it appeared his and Fiona’s viewpoints on Gotham’s decay weren’t all too dissimilar. Knowing this filled him with unexplainable relief. Having surveyed her for so long from a distance, he couldn’t help but feel that that distance extended to other avenues of their lives. He knew her in a material way…what clothes she wore, hygiene products she used, food she ate…but her actual views and ideologies remained a mystery. He could venture all the guesses he wanted, but only in interacting with her again would he get a feel for how she thought.

_It needs to be soon. I don’t know that I’m capable of waiting much longer._

“-not very safe.”

His gaze snapped back to Josie, who had been continuing their conversation. He offered her a nod of agreement.

“I’m afraid I have to get going,” he said. “But it was nice meeting you, Josie.”

“You too…Steven was it?”

He fought off the urge to snicker.

“Yeah.”

“Take care, Steven.”

“I will, thank you.”

Upon exiting the store, Arthur lit a cigarette and debated his next course of actions. Seeing as his sweet girl wouldn’t be around for the next few days, he decided a visit to Arkham State Hospital was in order. It was one of his least favorite places to be for reasons he couldn’t fully put into words. But only there would he gain the answers he sought.

After this task was completed, he needed to begin setting things into motion that would guarantee another encounter with Fiona. His patience had waned considerably since watching the pornographic videos he’d rented and on top of the thrill of seeing her again, he desperately wanted an excuse to try out what he was learning. He didn’t think the fantasies alone could sustain him anymore. And truth be told he no longer just wanted the fantasy. He wanted the real thing. He _deserved_ it. From a quick scan of the people in Fiona’s life he doubted any of them were as capable of loving her as much as he did. It was about time she came to realize this.

He headed off with a determined sigh.

**Fiona’s POV**

The get-together at Lou’s was much less rowdy than the one they’d held at Felix’s. This was partially due to said bar owner being away in New Jersey for the duration of the week. His absence allowed a soft ambience to fill up Lou’s living room as he bounced around from friend group to friend group, catching up and introducing his girlfriend Viola.

Fiona liked Viola well enough, though she was considerably more introverted than Lou’s outgoing nature, taking to hovering at Lou’s side uncertainly, letting him do all the talking. Sensing the woman’s shyness, Fiona turned to her as Lou launched into a story about the worst bar he’d ever played at.

“Lou said y’er a desk clerk at Arkham State Hospital,” she began. “How do ya like it?”

She grimaced lightly, eyes dropping to the rug.

“I think about quitting on the regular,” she admitted. “The pay is decent, but funding for the hospital has been cut considerably in the past year and it isn’t getting any better. We don’t go a month without losing staff members. Important ones that keep the patients in check.”

Fiona’s eyes widened.

“Have ya ever…had _close calls_ with patients?”

She shrugged with an air or resignation.

“Closer than I care to get into. They might be mentally ill, but they’re not stupid. They notice the decrease in security guards.” She shuffled closer to Fiona, lowering her voice. “Someone high on up…I don’t know who…has been paying off the local press to keep the actual number of attempted escapees lower than its actually been. It’s only a matter of time before that place implodes in on itself.”

Stunned at the news, Fiona could only nod. Unease - not for the first time - bubbled to the surface. How secure was Gotham’s future when it seemed like the city was continuing to unravel, string by string? Why was everyone but those in positions of power talking about this? She’d been considering as of late the impact of mass protesting and demands for ineffective leaders to step down. It seemed all that was needed was one healthy riot for the city to descend into chaos. She hoped it wouldn’t happen in her residency here, but stories like Viola’s did little to soothe her.

“You manage Lou’s band, right?”

Shaking herself out of less than optimistic thoughts, Fiona attempted a smile.

“Yeah. It’s a thankless job,” she joked. “Can’t imagine bein’ his gal is any easier.”

Viola cocked her head, appearing much more puzzled than Fiona intended.

“Sorry,” she added. “Poorly orchestrated joke.”

“No, you’re fine. I’m uh…just not used to that sort of humor. Lou accuses me of being a bit of a square. I just have to learn his friends’ senses of humor is all.” She offered a light grin. “But I imagine my job is a _little_ easier. He won’t ever admit to it, but Lou can be a little bit in the vein of Diana Ross.”

“No, really?” Fiona deadpanned.

Viola recovered from this attempt at humor far better.

“I’ve demanded to see his birth certificate before just to make sure he isn’t an illegitimate son of hers.”

“I’d demand t’a see his certificate to make sure he was born and not summoned.”

This prompted a burst of giggles from Viola.

“Oh shoot, I’m so glad you manage the band,” she admitted. “I can tell you don’t take any bull from anyone.”

This compliment warmed Fiona’s cheeks. She was glad to have broken the ice with Viola. It appeared she and Lou were just about perfect for one another.

Not an hour later and Lou & The Crawlers were gathered in the basement of Lou’s rowhome, tinkering around on their instruments to the crowd of herself, Viola, Kit, Viv, and a few of Lou’s old practicing buddies.

Fiona took the time to speak with Viv about any vacancies in her apartment complex.

“Not that I know of,” she recalled. “But we all got notices that there’s going to be a fifty-dollar rent increase effective New Year’s. It’s not an amount everyone can handle, so I imagine there will end up being some openings. I’ll keep you in the loop about it.”

“’Ppreciate it, Viv.”

They were interrupted by Lou’s shout in their direction.

“Come jam, Fiona! I had ya bring y’er banjo for a reason.”

Everyone’s gaze snapped in her direction.

Fiona shook her head, fidgeting slightly beneath all the attention.

“Nah Lou, ain’t polished enough t’a keep up with y’all.”

“Not polished enough my ass! Ya said ya were workin’ on a piece. We wanna hear it.”

She shook her head again.

“It ain’t anythin’ t’a toot my horn about.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” he persisted with a sly grin. “Ya guys wanna hear Fiona play?”

He was met with a round of encouragement. Not soon after Lou began chanting her name.

“Fiona! Fiona! Fiona!”

Everyone else joined in, peaking her embarrassment. While she personally knew every individual in the room, the thought of performing something so close to her heart made her queasy. What if they didn’t get it? When she played “Postmortem Blues” she was no longer Fiona Hill. She was her mysterious, dream-like alter ego. Even though she was performing as another character, to commit to that role in front of a group of equally talented musicians had her confidence quaking a little.

_Ah hell, what’s there to lose? _she thought as their chanting grew louder. _Best t’a hear criticism from friends than a group of strangers._

“Okay!” she yelled over everyone. “But if y’all’s ears start bleedin’ that’s on y’all. Fair warnin’.”

Lou clapped excitedly.

She picked up her banjo off the pool table and hung the strap attached to it, over her shoulder. Ignoring the eyes trained on her, she plucked a few chords to reacquaint herself with the feel of the instrument. She no longer needed the sheet music, the melody and rhythm practically stored in her brain.

With a deep sigh, she set about introducing everyone in the basement to her tune. They were all silent as she played the sort of song you would hear wandering the swamps of the deep South at two in the morning as a fog rolled in. Her right foot tapped after each pluck and she made it a point not to look at anyone specifically, lest she risked losing the illusion of what she was trying to convey.

After the last string had been plucked, she lowered the instrument, meeting Lou’s eyes.

“Shit Fi!” he exclaimed. “Who the hell broke y’er heart and where the hell they live?”

She chuckled at the comment.

“I’ve broken my own heart more than anyone else ever has,” she said. “That diddy was an attempt at forgivin’ myself.”

“I love it,” Bette threw in.

The rest of the Crawlers nodded in agreement.

“It’s like something they’d play at a funeral home,” Viv mentioned. “And I mean that in the best way possible.”

“Thank you?”

“So,” Kit piped in, “does a manager need their own manager? Or do they manage themselves?”

This prompted a discussion amongst everyone.

Lou made his way over to Fiona, beaming at her. He stopped when they were an arm’s distance apart and placed both hands on her shoulders.

“That was from the soul, Fi. I _felt_ that shit. There better be more songs y’er churnin’ out. This whole shebang with Grassmere Studios…might not just be our time. Could be yours too.”

“Nice of ya to say, but it’s more a hobby at this point than a potential career. Maybe in a few years when the novelty of ownin’ a record shop wears off, I’ll consider it. For now, I’m content to let y’all bask in the limelight.”

He squeezed her shoulders playfully.

“Just know there’s more than enough room for ya to bask with us too.”

“Thanks Lou.”

Despite the banjo still attached to her, Lou pulled her into a hug. She wrapped her arms around him, seemingly for the millionth time thankful that she had the friends she did.

Halfway across the city Arthur was slouched into his couch, staring numbly at the ceiling as his lit cigarette continued to burn. He made no move to smoke it, eyes set in a gazeless stare.

He struggled to come to terms with how easily it had been to kill his mother- the one who had tethered him to reality for so long. After learning what he had at Arkham, the anger he had experienced was blinding. He was so angry he ended up becoming calm. And in that calmness he found clarity. Even though his mother deserved what she got, he felt like a part of him died along with her. The part that was mild-mannered and socially sheltered. The part that spoke softly and made himself small in public places so as to avoid confrontation.

A part of him was dead, and yet, he felt free. He had no one to answer to anymore but himself.

_And Fiona._

He finally took a drag of his nearly extinguished cigarette, running a hand through his greasy locks. The outline of a plan had been rattling around in the back of his head for the past couple of days, but it had yet to come full circle as he’d been engaged with more personal matters. Now that his history had been uncovered, there was nothing else to focus on _but_ Fiona. 

He knew he needed to act in the coming days. No longer did he possess the patience to wait any longer. He knew his plan would involve Stag as he was easily persuaded to do the biddings of others. He knew it would also involve testing Fiona. Having killed his mother only reconfirmed that he needed to get Fiona comfortable sooner than later with what it means to take a life. How powerful it makes you feel when you’ve lacked this feeling for so long.

So, as Fiona delved into another amiable chat with Viola miles away, nonethewiser to the nefarious plot brewing, Arthur sat, smoked, and contemplated how to go about returning to his fiancé.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was both frustrating and fun to write and is one of the remaining chapters where fate is in Fiona's favor. We also got Arthur sinking deeper into his obsession to the point that he doesn't even correct himself when he thinks of Fiona as his fiance. I'm both dreading and excited to write their reunion cos I feel like I'm trying to give them both what they want, but it's not possible. Not without hurting one of them. 
> 
> Happy New Year's folks!


	8. Chapter 8

Fiona arrived to work Monday morning twenty minutes before the store opened. Dale arrived about ten minutes later.

“Hey Dale, was wonderin’ if I could have a word.”

He adjusted his glasses before approaching the front counter.

“Sure Fiona, what’s happening?”

“I uh…I’ve been considerin’ letting Mick go,” she explained. “But I don’t wanna overwhelm ya. Know anybody that could potentially take his place?”

“Long overdue,” he agreed. “I got a nephew who relocated back to Gotham after a stint in Silicon Valley. He’s looking for something part-time. I could give him a call and see about him stopping in later today for an interview.”

“That’d be perfect, thank you.”

Having taking care of that, Fiona went into the cupboard-sized office to retrieve the paperwork from her two days off. By a quick scan it looked like business had been good. This was further supported when she saw the profit for both days.

“Good on you, Josie,” she mumbled to herself.

The morning passed sluggishly, but Fiona had enough to keep her busy. She put some new posters up on the storefront window, finished the schedule for the week of Thanksgiving, vacuumed every inch of the store, and got her order list in check. Earlier in the morning she’d had MTV on and watched an artist named Madonna perform a heck of a banger. Her gut told her this woman had an undeniable star quality, so, she added Madonna’s freshman album to her list of imports.

Just before one o’clock hit, Josie popped by to catch her up on how things went.

“Thanksgiving hasn’t even hit yet, but people are buying Christmas records like crazy,” she said. “That and we’ve been getting requests for more hip-hop selections. Myself included.”

“I’m not as well-versed in that genre,” Fiona admitted. “Got any suggestions?”

“Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaataa, Kurtis Blow, Lady B are some of my current favorites,” she listed off. “I have this feeling hip-hop is going to explode. Everyone around my neck of the woods is either beatboxing or freestyling. And not just adults, kids too.”

“I’ll add them to the list. Thanks for the heads up.”

“No problem.” She was readying herself to leave when her eyes widened. “Hey, did your friend Steven stop by?”

Fiona cocked her head.

“Steven?”

“Yeah. He said you guys used to jam together.”

Her brows furrowed together as she recalled the list of people she’d kicked it with. It wasn’t a long one: Kit, Viv, The Crawlers, and a gal named Frankie who moved out of Gotham shortly after receiving a better job.

“Sorry to say Jos, but I don’t know any Steven. What’d he look like?”

“Tall, long-brown hair, green eyes. He wasn’t half bad looking and very polite. We got to talking about how shit’s gotten bad in Gotham. It was kinda refreshing.”

Fiona shook her head, thoroughly stumped. She didn’t think her memory was so bad as to forget jamming with this person. Which meant either this Steven had her confused with somebody else or someone was messing with her.

“He said he’d be in Monday,” Josie followed up.

“I’ll keep a lookout,” she said somewhat uncertainly. “Thanks Jos.”

“No problem. And um…could you ask him if he’s single?”

“Need me to play matchmaker?”

Josie shrugged.

“Good men are hard to find anymore. Gotta snatch them up when you finally find one. If he is, feel free to give him my number.”

“Will do.”

She left shortly after.

Fiona kept a closer eye from that moment on on each person who came through her doors. A few men matched Josie’s description, but they were either complete strangers or regulars whose names didn’t match the one given.

She tried not to let the mystery of who this person could be, plague her too much. But a few times throughout the shift, she found herself absently stroking the handle of her machete, lost in thought. She wasn’t sure if she should be unnerved by the situation or think nothing of it.

About an hour before closing time Dale’s nephew – Nathan – stopped by. Fiona was taken off guard by how attractive she found him. He didn’t appear to be too much older than her with sandy blonde hair and arctic blue eyes. Had she passed him on the street, she might have confused him for Robert Redford. 

“Dale said ya worked at Silicon Valley for a bit,” she started off after introducing herself. “I take it ya know y’er way ‘round just ‘bout any computing device.”

“I do,” he answered. “Tinkered with gadgets all my life. I like knowing how things work.”

When he smiled, she fought back a blush.

_Maybe I oughta get laid. Cool my jets a little bit._

She collected herself before her thoughts could veer toward racier horizons.

“What’s your availability like?” she followed up.

“I’m at my other job on the weekends, but any weekdays are fine.”

“Have any health or medical issues I should know about?”

“None that I’m aware of.” He tilted his head. “Is this position going to give me any?”

“I certainly hope not.” She chuckled a little. “How are you with workin’ by yourself?”

“I prefer it honestly. People are too distracting. I don’t like being interrupted when I’m focused.”

“We get pretty high traffic on the holidays,” she warned. “That gonna be okay for ya?”

“So long as you don’t expect me to interact with each one, I’ll be fine. I’m not antisocial, I just…people are kind of stupid, you know? Especially when it comes to thinking. They don’t. Not to their full capacity. It gets on my nerves sometimes.”

“The position doesn’t really require too much interaction other than when they drop off and pick up their gadgets. Some are legitimately curious ‘bout how gadgets work and what ya did to fix them, so they’ll hang ‘round to chat.”

“That’s encouraging,” he said. “I’m not a dick by the way. I don’t yell or try to get in people’s faces. I’m good at keeping my thoughts to myself, so you don’t have to worry about me going off on someone.”

He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I feel like I’m failing this interview.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ against ya bein’ honest,” she reassured. “You really won’t be bothered too much. We at the register get the brunt of it.”

His shoulders slumped with relief.

“I’ll have Dale start trainin’ ya next Monday if y’er up for the job. Give ya a week t’a get any prior obligations outta the way. Work attire here is pretty casual. So long’s it’s not anythin’ profane, I’ll allow it.”

“You mean I didn’t scare you off?”

He sounded thoroughly surprised.

“I don’t scare all that easy,” she promised.

They held each other’s gazes for a moment before she extended her hand. He blinked and took it, shaking it.

“Welcome on board.”

After he left, Dale eyed her with a smirk she chose to ignore.

_Definitely havin’ a little self-lovin’ session tonite. Last thing Nathan needs is my horny butt salivatin’ over him._

Before closing up shop, she straightened some merchandise and dusted off the window ledges. It felt good to have work to do. Made her feel useful and in charge. 

She’d chugged back eight coffees throughout the day. After locking up she opted to walk home rather than catch a cab.

About ten minutes in and she stopped at a bus stop to tie her shoe. Gotham had been blanketed by twilight and the streets were slowly dwindling with people. Which is why a bald man wearing a leather jacket almost instantly caught her attention. He was perched against a pizza joint diagonal to her, puffing on a cigarette. A couple of times his gaze would stray to her, but he made no move to approach.

Nevertheless, Fiona made note of his presence as she took off again. This time with a hand on the handle of her machete.

She tried not to look uneasy as she walked, but the hairs on the back of her neck were on high alert. And with good reason, she soon learned. After passing a storefront with a gigantic display window, she noticed out of the corner of her vision the same man to be keeping a healthy pace behind her. Could be just coincidence, but she wasn’t willing to take the chance in case it wasn’t.

When she was roughly five blocks from home, she veered off into a narrow alleyway between a closed mercantile store and a boutique. She didn’t venture too far in. She also didn’t have much of a plan as she pulled out her machete. It was only dawning on her now that she was in a potentially volatile situation.

_I’ve known this could always happen. _

She waited with bated breath, machete extended in front of her.

Not even a full thirty seconds later and the man paused at the mouth of the alley. She grimaced upon noting the outline of a swastika on the side of his head.

Their eyes met and he smirked, wandering toward her.

“Ya better stay the fuck back,” she said, hand shaking slightly.

“That’s a big knife for such a little girl,” he replied, pulling out a curved, six-inch blade. “Better put that thing down before you get hurt.”

He continued moving toward her. She back peddled, heart thumping wildly.

“Only one who’s gonna get hurt is you,” she threatened, swinging it once in hopes of dissuading his pursuit. “I ain’t got cash on me, asshole. Ain’t worth the headache of muggin’.”

His smile was sinister.

“Trust me sweet cheeks, mugging you is the furthest thing from my mind.”

She swung her blade two more times, but he wasn’t deterred.

“Heard you keep the company of men outside your race,” he said, tossing his blade from one hand to the other. “Figure I’d show you what a real man feels like.”

His words both terrified and infuriated her.

“Oh yeah? Where is he?”

His grin was instantly wiped off.

She jumped when her elbow knocked into the corner of a dumpster. Her feet froze as she wrapped both hands around the handle.

The man had paused as well, the tip of her machete just barely touching his chest.

“It’s little sluts like you that’ve made Gotham what it is,” he accused, fingers tightening on his handle. “Spreading your legs to any man that shows you attention.”

“That how y’er mama had ya?”

His sneer was enough to send shivers down her spine. But she held fast, refusing to show how badly he intimidated her.

“I’m gonna fuck your guts out.”

“I’d like to see ya try.”

He made to lunge at her, but she swiped at him, nicking him in the process.

She knew she couldn’t afford to miss.

He attempted a lunge again, and this time, she didn’t hold back. With all her might she swung her machete. He attempted to duck, succeeding in evading the blade. But Fiona’s instincts were lightning fast and before she could second guess herself, she repeated the gesture at his semi-crouched form.

Her blade sunk into the soft skin of his neck, slicing through muscle and tendons. She could tell he was caught off guard, probably convinced she wouldn’t go through with it due to his own misogyny. His knife dropped, hands immediately moving to cover the gushing wound as he sank down to his knees.

Fiona was possessed with endless adrenaline, not realizing fully this was probably enough to stop him and give her the chance to escape. But that’s not where her mind was at. Her mind kept replaying what could have happened had she not had her weapon on her. And this fear was enough to make her draw the machete back and aim another wild swing at him, going for the opposite side of his neck. 

He could do nothing as her blade struck him. It went in a couple inches before getting lodged against something hard. She retracted the blade and kept it aimed at him as his opposite hand shot to the new wound, blood pooling through his fingers.

Only when his knees gave out and he keeled over did she come to realize what had just happened. Her eyes widened as he convulsed. The blood staining her blade caused a whine to exit her.

“Fuck,” she muttered, glancing up.

They were alone, but the night was still young. Someone was bound to find him before morning came.

Shakily, she sheathed her blade, eyes watering. The man wasn’t yet dead but looked to be on his way. Even though he had planned to do vile things to her, regret still bubbled in her. She had never thought of taking a human life before. Not seriously anyway. Her heart clenched at the feeling.

_It was either me or him. I did what I had to._

Regardless, the tears came. She tried to impede their flow but wasn’t able to.

_Do I go to the police? Call Ma?_

They’d no doubt interrogate her about her weapon of choice. Maybe they’d think she’d attacked the man like a crazy person.

And her mother…they had only just gotten back onto neutral terms with one another. Was this something she could even get her out of? She’d been adamant that no one know their relationship with one another. A trial would ruin that.

Gulping, she stared down at her quaking hands. Whatever her next action was, she needed to get the hell out of the alley.

She wiped at her eyes a final time and snuck around the man’s trembling form. Upon reaching the entrance to the alley, she scanned her environment. A group of people walking and chatting across the street were the only persons in the vicinity, but they were too lost in each other to notice her. She breathed in and set off in the direction of her apartment, keeping her head low.

Had she lingered in the area any longer she’d have noticed a man stand from behind a nearby car he’d been kneeling behind.

Stag’s gurgles echoed off the walls, causing Arthur to smile. He whistled a tune as he approached the man, whipping out a switchblade he’d _borrowed_ from a pawn shop. Lifting his shoe, he flipped the man over so he was lying on his back.

Blood stained the cement all around him. His eyes scurried around erratically before landing on him.

Arthur cocked his head and crouched down, tapping the tip of the blade against his bottom lip.

He released a long, low whistle.

“My fiancée really did a number on you,” he observed, unable to contain his glee. “_Naughty_ girl, having all the _fun_.”

Stag opened his mouth and tried to say something, but all the came out was an unintelligible gurgle.

“What was that?” Arthur asked, leaning his ear toward the man. “I didn’t catch that.”

He tried speaking again but was unsuccessful.

“You want me to finish the job?” he guessed, looking at him. “Well why didn’tja say so?”

Stag was left utterly helpless as Arthur slowly sunk his blade into his jugular. He twisted and just like that, all life left Stag’s eyes.

Arthur used the man’s wifebeater to clean off the blood from his switchblade, whistling as he did so. He was very, very pleased Fiona had gone through with defending herself. He felt the slightest bit guilty at having put her into this situation, but the guilt was brief. He’d trailed them both and no matter what the outcome of their encounter would have been, Stag wouldn’t be leaving the alleyway alive. She was in no serious harm, even if she didn’t know it. He’d have shot the man if it came down to it. Thankfully, it hadn’t, and he was able to remain anonymous to her.

He stood and pocketed his knife. Now it was time to tap into the full capacity of his strength. It was crucial in guaranteeing the police didn’t trace his death back to Fiona.

Though it took him nearly ten minutes, he was able to drag Stag’s body by the legs to the dumpster deep into the alley and prop him up using his own body. With a few shaky grunts and lifts that had his shoulders aching, he managed to propel Stag’s dead body into the dumpster. For good measure, he tossed a few bags on top of him to hide him from view. Garbage disposal workers were still on strike so he figured he had a while before his body was discovered, hopefully well-decomposed by then.

“Aw,” he giggled, tilting his head as a rat scurried out of a seeping trash bag and headed straight under to investigate Stag’s body, “you’re right where you belong, Staggy.”

With a lopsided grin, he exited the alley, skipping a little as he did so. Things were finally in motion and he couldn’t be more thrilled. If luck continued to be on his side, within twenty-four hours he would be reunited with his sweet girl.

***

When Fiona awoke she could barely get her eyes open. They were still puffy from last night’s tears. She lay in bed far longer than usual, trying to muster up the motivation to get ready for work.

Now that the crying had subsided, numbness possessed every inch of her body. On one hand it felt good not to feel anything. On the other, it wasn’t something she’d felt all that much in her life. Thus, experiencing it made her feel like a shell of herself. Like she would need to do a lot of work to return to the place she’d been at yesterday morning.

Last night she had come to the conclusion – if only to ease the guilt she carried – that the man needed to be dealt with and there was very little she could have done but use physical force. He was an ignorant brute that for too long had been convinced his views were justified. No amount of pleading or appealing to his senses would have stopped him from trying to rape her.

What gutted her was that she had a moment to stop herself from delivering that second, fatal blow. He was clearly at a disadvantage and she could have sprinted out of the alley, content with herself for acting as quick as she had, content with knowing she’d maimed him.

That she chose to deliver that second blow scared her. Up to this point in her life she didn’t think herself to have a predisposition towards violence. Maybe in her words, but it was all a façade to protect herself. Only when she was put into a situation that required true self-preservation did she realize she didn’t know herself as well as she thought she did. The preacher at her Baptist church would reiterate how important it was to cultivate mercy, both onto ourselves and others.

Last night, she lacked this. And she didn’t know if she always lacked it or it was a product of that specific situation and that specific individual.

_What would bein’ merciful have gotten me? _

She shuddered at the thought, wondering how it is she’d become a stranger to herself over-night.

By chance, her eyes happened to open wide enough to check her watch.

She rubbed her face into her pillow and groaned into it. For as difficult as it was going to be, she needed to act like it was business as usual. And that meant not looking like the epitome of grief.

She relied on autopilot to guide her movements. She wasn’t particularly present in anything she was doing, and it came as a faint surprise when she found herself getting ready to strap her machete to her hip, not really sure how it is she had checked out for so long.

Hesitating, Fiona lowered the machete and walked to her coat closet.

_I murdered a man with this._

Grimacing, she opened the door and set it at the very back, hiding it behind her coats and jackets.

When she left her apartment it was with a lowered head and eyes that refused to stray from her feet.

Upon nearing the alleyway of last night’s events, she paused, causing someone to run into her and release a ‘watch where the fuck you’re going’.

No police were present, which meant they probably had already cleared the scene. She hoped to God there wasn’t anything that could lead them to her. Otherwise there was no way for her mother not to get involved.

_Do I tell her any of this? Ever? She might understand. Then again, her bein’ a Prosecutor might work against me. She puts away the bad guys._

Tears pricked at her eyes at this thought. She resumed walking, wishing to get as far away from this scene as possible.

When she reached her store, she opened it with an overwhelming sense of dread. She hadn’t had to fake it in a very long time. She knew who she was, or who she thought she was and she’d been blessed to be surrounded by friends who encouraged her to say and do what was on her mind. There was no way they wouldn’t pick up that something was up with her.

_I’ll lie then and chuck it up to a lack of sleep. _

Knowing this was the best explanation she could come up with given her mental state, Fiona set about opening the store. She’d neglected picking up a cup of coffee so it took a while for her to wake up.

Reggie noted she looked a little worse for the wear. She didn’t even acknowledge Mick who she meant to fire but didn’t care enough to do so until it hit noon and he still hadn’t returned from his twenty-minute smoke break.

There were only four other customers in the store – all regulars – as well as Reggie.

When Mick returned clutching Chinese take-out, Fiona’s nerves shot through the roof. She was no longer numb, she was incensed.

“Where the fuck we’re ya?” she yelled at him from behind the counter.

Everyone’s gaze snapped to her, some person’s mouths popping open.

He looked just as taken aback at her outburst.

“Does it genuinely take effort t’a be such a lazy piece of shit? Or it come naturally?”

He set his takeout down, blinking owlishly.

“The fuck am I even payin’ ya for?” she continued louder, gesturing to the ceiling. “Just t’a sit on y’er ass like a fuckin’ snail and work just as slowly? Then go out ‘n burn through half a pack? Y’er work ethic is a fuckin’ joke. Y’er fired. And if ya don’t grab y’er takeout in the next five seconds and get out, I’ll dump it in the garbage. Or maybe all over ya. You’ll know in five, four, three-.”

He was out of the store by one, leaving everyone to stare after his retreating form.

She took a deep breath, clutching her hands together to prevent them from shaking. Eventually, she would have to apologize to him for firing him in such a manner. It really was unprofessional, and she didn’t seek to humiliate others like that no matter how annoying she found them.

But right now lava coursed through her veins.

Unsurprisingly her regulars left shortly after, leaving Reggie to cautiously throw glances at her from a distance.

“Uh…Fi? You doing okay?”

Her shoulders deflated at the trepidation in his voice.

_I’m bein’ a real stick in the mud. Ain’t fair t’a take this all out on them. _

“Sorry Reg.” She turned to him and offered him a tight smile. “Just haven’t been sleepin’ well lately. And he…went ‘n got food during his shift without tellin’ me. Made me a little sore is all. I meant nothin’ by it ‘n I’ll apologize to him.”

He risked a step toward her.

“To be fair,” he said, “ninety-percent of what you said was true. I’ve just never heard you be so…crass about it. When you’re upset you’re usually sassy, but polite.”

“Like I said, lack of sleep is gettin’ to me.”

He seemed to accept this answer, returning to stocking.

She tried to revert to autopilot. She didn’t trust herself not to lose it on someone else.

_Ya gotta get y’er shit together. ‘Therwise y’er gonna run this store into the ground. Don’t let that brute ruin this too._

She held it together all the way until an hour before close. Feeling bad at frightening Reggie, she let him go home a couple hours early. Business had died off for the most part, but she was okay with this. Each interaction seemed to drain more and more out of her.

At half an hour before closing time her door dinged and she tiredly glanced up, the same generic greeting she’d used all day on the tip of her tongue.

Except her tongue ended up freezing. She blinked a few times to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her.

Standing at the entrance was Arthur Fleck, hands timidly crossed behind him. He wore black slacks, a white-buttoned down shirt beneath a dark emerald vest topped off with an orange bowtie that had green dots on it. He looked like he’d put some effort into his hair, some sort of gel causing it to slick back and widen at the sides. Save for his comedy show, it was the first time she was seeing him without makeup, and she couldn’t help but stare, wishing to speak but not sure what to say. Or maybe unwilling. She wasn’t sure if it was her depressed state influencing the thought, but he looked fetching. And there was a light swimming around in his eyes that she could note all the way from the counter.

Something had changed about this man, she just couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Hi,” he said softly, offering her a wave.

“Hi,” she answered, shaking off her shock. “I’m-I…y’er lookin’ good.”

He grinned confidently before closing the door behind him and wandering in.

His grin dropped upon taking in her face.

“Have you been crying, Fiona?”

The concern in his tone nearly set off the waterworks again. He continued to approach until he was on the other side of the counter. One hand reached out to touch her, but when she instinctively pulled away, he dropped it.

“I-sorry,” she said. “I’ve been havin’ a rough past twenty-four hours. Just a wee overwhelmed is all.”

She cleared her throat, unsure what topic to tackle first.

“Um…I saw y’er performance on television,” she decided on. “That was rotten what Murray did to ya. I had half a mind t’a find him and give him a piece of my mind.”

Arthur smiled at that, shaking his head.

“That’s very kind of you, but it’s all okay now. I actually got a phone call from his casting agent this morning. I’m going to be on Thursday’s show to perform.”

Her jaw dropped open. For the first time since her nightmare had begun, she experienced good emotions: elation and pride.

“Good for ya, Arthur!” she congratulated, allowing some warmth into her smile. “Y’er sense of humor might not be everybody’s cup of tea, but it is mine.”

“That’s all that matters.”

He was open about his staring. She didn’t think he’d once looked at anything else in the store.

“I’ve been meaning to pop by,” he said. “I hope it’s okay…we didn’t make any plans to see each other, but I remember you telling me you worked here and I just…I wanted to see you. Make sure you were doing alright after everything with your mother.”

The hand that’d remained behind him, suddenly came into view. He was clutching a small bouquet of manila marigolds and autumn monarch azaleas.

“I uh…this is for you.” He offered her the bouquet. “These are native to the South, right? I um…figured you might be a little homesick what with your mom treating you the way she has.”

Her heart burst at the gesture, though the thoughtfulness of it baffled her. She figured he’d be somewhat sore with her after she practically ditched him.

She accepted them and closed her eyes, inhaling three times. He was right on the money, they did remind her of home. A longing for simpler times struck her. No matter what sort of life she created here in Gotham, it would always be tainted by the night she took a life she could have spared. Perhaps the path back to who she’d been lay in moving back home. Right about now the idea was quite appealing.

“Thank you, Arthur, they’re lovely.” She opened her eyes. “Papa was a gardener ‘n he grew all sortsa azaleas. These are some of my favorites.”

He beamed at her, cocking his head slightly as his eyes shot between the flowers, her mouth, and her eyes. When he didn’t say anything, she cleared her throat.

“I uh…I wanted t’a apologize f’er not callin’ ya back,” she said, figuring there was no beating around the bush about it. “I wasn’t lookin’ f’er a relationship ‘n this was before me and my Ma straightened things out. I was in a very…vulnerable place and I took advantage of y’er kindness. I feel awful ‘bout it.”

He shook his head.

“There’s no need to, Fiona. You were going through a rough time and I wanted to help you the same way you helped me. I don’t feel taken advantage of. I was touched that you were willing to bare yourself to me like that. Even if liquor assisted you. I have no expectations of you. I just…I’d like to maybe be your friend?”

_Do friends give each other friends flowers? Maybe they should start._

“Yeah, I’d like that,” she agreed.

“I also want you to know that there’s no shame in being vulnerable with me,” he continued. “I don’t see you any less. You have to get out your feelings somehow and I’m more than willing to be a source to vent to. Both good and bad. There’s nothing you could do to tarnish my image of you. From the moment you defended me in that alley, you could do no wrong.”

She got slightly choked up at his words. If only he knew.

“Thanks Arthur,” she sounded out, struggling to smile.

He took another step toward her, brows furrowing.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Is there anything I can do to help you?”

She had to avert her eyes. The pure regard for her well-being was nearly overwhelming. Last night’s events were on the tip of her tongue to blurt. She needed to release it all to someone. Receive a judgment not her own. Because if it was up to her, she’d never forgive herself.

Inhaling sharply, she looked down, blinking back the tears.

“I’m fine,” she promised with a sniffle.

In seconds Arthur was behind the counter with her, hands lingering at her cheeks but not touching. A few stray tears made their way down. He thumbed them away.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered, cupping her face. “When you hurt, I hurt. Tell me what’s wrong, sweet girl.”

She hiccupped back a sob, unable to meet his eyes directly. This left her to stare at his Adam’s apple.

“Y-you’ll hate me if I tell ya.”

He skimmed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“It’s not possible. I told you…in my eyes you can do no wrong.”

When she didn’t reply he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. Fathomless adoration was being aimed at her. It was enough to make her breaths stutter.

“Um.” She swallowed shakily. “Would ya be willin’ to come to my place after I close up? I-I’d feel better talkin’ there.”

Arthur grinned like he’d just won first place in a competition.

“Of course,” he soothed, thumbnail stroking a dimple at the edge of her lips. “I’ll wait for you on the bench outside, okay?”

She nodded.

He gave her cheek one more stroke before leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not okay with hints of dub-con or any form of sexual assault, here be probably your last chapter before jumping ship. Also there's a humiliation kink that's gonna be spruced in there.   
This boat is in motion so get comfy! Full speed ahead!!


	9. Chapter 9

Her movements were fidgety as she closed up. She went back and forth on how to breach the information without making her sound like a killer. Or rather one that lacked a heart.

_“In my eyes you can do no wrong.”_

She hadn’t realized until that moment how much her good deed had impacted him. He truly viewed her like she walked on air. It was both flattering and somewhat overwhelming.

Not ten minutes later and she was locking up the front door, his bouquet tucked under her arm. He stood when she walked over, wearing the same affectionate expression.

Abruptly, he offered her his arm.

“Shall we?”

He lifted both eyebrows in a playful waggle.

Unable to help it, she released a smile at the gesture.

_Why not? Best to feel amused rather than what I’ve felt all day._

She slipped her arm into his while clutching the bouquet in her opposite hand. When they didn’t move, she realized he was waiting for her to lead.

It was an unusually windy night in Gotham and to her disappointment the wind stole a few of the marigold petals. Arthur kept close to her, never allowing them to stray more than skin-to-skin contact away from each other. She appreciated his warmth as a chill had began to develop throughout her body.

Not wishing to pass the alley on her way home, she opted on a shorter route that cut through primarily parks and blue-collar mom and pop shops. They arrived at her place in roughly a half hour.

She led them in, faintly noting he still had yet to release her.

“Need my arm back if I’m t’a get us inside,” she teased as they waited for the elevator.

“I don’t know,” he answered, leaning over her, “I kinda wanna keep it. Looks good wrapped around mine.”

He released her a moment later, shooting her a wink.

She could feel her face grow hot at what she suspected was an attempt at flirtation. She wasn’t sure how to feel about this. He claimed he only wanted to be her friend, but friends didn’t flirt with each other, did they?

_Lou ‘n I like t’a make innuendos sometimes ‘bout one another. But we both know the other is jokin’. I’m not sure if Arthur is or not._

The elevators dinged open before she could contemplate any further.

Out of the corner of her eye she could feel the heat of Arthur’s stare. Though she got her arm back, he made it a point to stand as close as possible to her, bordering on invading her space, lingering on the premises.

The entire ride up felt slightly claustrophobic, though she attributed this to the limiting space inside the lift. Nevertheless, she was relieved when it was finally time to get off.

He followed her down a hallway until they reached apartment 4F.

As she worked on unlocking the door, behind her, Arthur placed both hands on either side of her entryway. When she turned to let him in, he was caging her in against the door with his chest, peering down intensely at her.

They met each other’s stare. She smiled uncertainly, wondering what prompted such a gesture.

His arms abruptly dropped.

“Sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I just…am _really_ excited to see you again. So are my limbs as it turns out.”

His nervous laugh relaxed her again.

“Well, ya can take this bouquet and we’ll help find a vase for ‘em.”

He accepted them without a fuss as she let them in.

While she slung off her coat, Arthur disappeared into her kitchenette. She watched him grab a vase from the top left cupboard and fill it with water.

“Good guess,” she noted, joining him in the closed quarters.

“My place is similar to this,” he explained, gathering each individual flower and slipping it inside. “It’s where my mother kept her vases too. The white lilies haven’t been touched since she died.”

Unable to help it, she placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“Sorry to hear, Arthur.”

If she’d have seen the front of his body, she’d have witnessed him trying to stifle down laughter.

“It’s okay,” he said after a moment. “You have no control over these things.”

She thought about last night and silently agreed, dropping her hand.

“I uh…I’m gonna pour myself a glass of apple pie moonshine. Homemade from a family friend of mine back home. Care t’a try some?”

He turned to her, flowers and vase in hand.

“Sure. The medication I took for my disorder wouldn’t allow me to mix the two. It’ll be interesting to feel the effects after all these years.”

She accepted the vase with an arched brow, walking over to her window ledge in the living room.

“So if you’re not on your medication, I take it you’re cured?”

She set the vase down and turned around, nearly jumping at Arthur’s form. He had followed her until he loomed only an arm’s distance away.

“As I’ll ever be,” was his answer, lips quirking up. “That’s the funny thing about medications. They cure some but inhibit others. Sometimes, there isn’t anything wrong with you. What you have is a society that just because you don’t fit into their standards of normalcy, labels you with some sort of illness. It’s isolating being made to believe there’s something wrong with you when there isn’t.”

She never considered medicine from this perspective. Sure, Arthur’s uncontrollable laughter had startled her at first, but after meeting the man behind it, she realized it was a tic of sorts. Like some people like flying in the seat nearest to the window. Or some have to smell all the deodorants before making a purchase.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve gotten comfortable with that part of you,” she said with what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “I’m proud of you.”

Arthur’s body began to quake as he shot both hands over his mouth, unable to contain his laughter. She left him to process the fit, figuring he wouldn’t appreciate her staring. She poured them each a glass of moonshine as the last of his laughter spilled out.

He joined her in the kitchen for his glass. She offered hers to clink and he did so, keeping eye contact with her the entire time.

“Oooey, that hit the spot,” she said after two successive gulps. “It’s after the third sip that drinkin’ this becomes dangerous.”

He smiled from behind his glass, a sparkle in his eye.

“How dangerous are we talking?”

“Callin’ up a stranger you met once just t’a have phone sex with him.”

A giggle exited him and she blushed at the action, already beginning to feel it in her face. Before she could let herself get carried away, her mind reminded her why he was over here to begin with.

She set her glass down, attempting not to frown as her eyes strayed to her coat closet.

Something brushed against her cheek. Arthur had stepped closer, knuckles adding to the warmth of the liquor. The ends of his locks tickled her face.

“What is it?”

“I…” She gulped. “I done somethin’ awful.”

“Something awful or something you had to do?”

This gave her pause.

“Both?”

His thumb was gently stroking the underside of her jaw. His attention was hyper focused on her and in this moment of raw vulnerability, she reveled in it.

“It’s usually one or the other, sweet girl.”

She sighed, eyes fluttering shut. She didn’t want to see his expression for this.

“Last night I was walkin’ home and noticed someone followin’ me. Tried to think nothin’ of it, but they kept up. I uh…went into an alley, hopin’ the situation wasn’t what I thought it was. I-he was big ‘n mean ‘n said downright nasty things to me. Of what he planned to do just ‘cos I’m assumin’ he’s seen me with Lou or my co-worker Reggie. I-he didn’t give me no choice. I-I-.”

“Shh,” Arthur urged, finger covering her lips. “You leave it at that and move on. He didn’t give you a choice.”

Her eyes popped open, stunned at how easy he made it sound.

“But-.”

“No buts. Buts are the reason you’re feeling the way you are. Gotham is becoming unhinged. If it wasn’t him, it would have been somebody else. We have to adjust to the new law of the land. And that’s lawlessness. Tell me…do you think you’d be standing here with me if you hadn’t defended yourself?”

She shook her head.

“You recognized in that moment it was either you or him. And I as well as all those that care for you will be so thankful you chose you.”

She didn’t know how he did it. Found the right words to soothe her. Make her feel like she wasn’t nearly as terrible as she led herself to believe.

“I could’ve let him live,” she said. “The first blow easily gave me a chance to run.”

“Is Gotham better off without him?”

Her eyes fluttered again. She was glad some part of him was touching her, otherwise, she feared she’d float away.

_Yes._

But she didn’t voice this, settling on the virtuous route.

“I can’t afford to start thinkin’ like that. Some humans are just lost in the dark. I don’t believe for a second they can’t make their way back.”

“Sweet girl…some of them have never known light in their life. To bask in it is a disease and they will drag anyone they’re capable of toward darkness. Try to see it this way…you slayed a monster. A monster that would have continued his terror had you not ended it. You’re a hero, Fiona. And I won’t let you keep thinking you’re not.”

Before she could argue otherwise, his lips met hers, pressing a series of close-mouthed kisses on her. Each one made the fire in her tummy burn all the hotter. She parted her lips and his tongue dove in, meeting hers. One hand strayed to the back of her neck and wrapped around it, bringing her in closer.

His kissing started out careful and slow, but the moment their tongues battled each other, his pace increased, taking to battling hers any chance she tried to dive past. He did a particularly salacious move where he swirled his tongue around hers and then sucked. It had her pulling back to look at him, thoroughly dazzled.

“Arthur, darlin’,” she laughed, resting a hand on his chest. “I thought you said you was a virgin.”

His grin was a mix of bashful and predatory.

“I uh…may have practiced since we last talked. I’m at a disadvantage being so far behind. Figured I’d learn a thing or two.”

“It wasn’t with prostitutes was it?”

His face crinkled up so fast it made her giggle.

“Just checkin’,” she followed up. “Don’t need my private parts turnin’ green.”

“Wouldn’t stop me,” he admitted, the hand on her neck pressing her back into him so he could renew his assault of kisses.

She herself was a little rusty, not having had a partner since leaving home. She was more than content to let Arthur set the pace and then join him when she was ready.

And set the pace did he. When the hand not on her neck reached out to fondle a breast and thumb the hardening nipple, giving it a squeeze that made her panties dampen; then just as quickly slide down her back to cup and squeeze her butt, offering it a series of light slaps that brought her closer to him, letting her feel his firm cock against her stomach; she had to wonder if he really was telling the truth about being a virgin. Quite simply put, he knew his way around a woman’s body.

“Ya sure y’er a virgin?” She managed to gasp out as they broke apart for air.

Already, Arthur’s fingers were fiddling with his vest, looking like he couldn’t decide whether to focus on undressing himself or attacking her mouth again.

“I was very_, very_ thorough on my homework,” he answered coyly, throwing her a heated look.

She worked on removing her t-shirt and faded jeans, nearly laughing at the absurdity of it. Undressing in her kitchenette with a man she’d saved from getting beat to death weeks prior. If he was thanking her she wasn’t opposed.

“Bedroom,” she said once they had both stripped down to their undergarments.

Arthur didn’t appear to have heard her. His eyes were hungrily scanning her, something like a faint whine rumbling in his throat.

Unused to such intensity, she snatched her half-full glass of moonshine and led the way, maybe intentionally swaying her hips, maybe not.

She didn’t get any further than her bedroom’s entrance when a pair of hands slid around her waist, dragging her back. One hand immediately went to grab a breast while the other slid down her sensitive tummy, nails drawing invisible circles that had her squirming deliciously back into him. His panting was audible now as his mouth worked its way up and down her neck, alternating between kissing and nibbling. One bite would be sharper than the rest, but he’d soothe it with his tongue before sucking the flesh into his mouth, marking the skin with blossoming hickeys.

The hand on her tummy abandoned its tracing, two long digits disappearing into the front of her underwear. The hand on her breast removed the cups of her bra, allowing the natural weight to settle in his hand as he kneaded and flicked the nipple with his thumb.

Her moans joined his as he stroked her slit for the first time.

“Mmm…did I do this?” he whispered into her ear, nipping at her earlobe in rapid succession. “Am I the reason this pretty little pussy is all wet?”

_Jesus Almighty where did he learn this kinda language? I thought I was dirty._

“Yes, Arthur, darlin’. Ya did do it.”

He ground his cock into her ass, fingers sinking deeper within her and twirling. Her moans turned into mewls, adjusting her legs so he could go further in, clenching around him greedily.

“I’ve thought about this since the night you called me,” he admitted with a strained sigh, licking the outline of her earlobe before nabbing it with his teeth.

This action had her trying to jerk away from him. He was doing too much to her at once. She needed a reprieve from the sexual torment.

But Arthur would not budge his hold on her, seemingly tightening his fingers around her breast and pulling her further into him by her groin.

“Oh no no no, none of that sweet girl. You’re gonna take _everything_ I give you, hm? I’d hate to have to punish you.”

_Punish me?_

She channeled the last part of her capable of speaking.

“Yeah?” she shot back, intentionally backing into him. “I might like it, darlin’.”

He paused all his ministrations. The hand previously on her breast wrapped into her hair. He tilted her head back quickly, though not painfully. Just to the right angle where they could see each other comfortably.

It was a wonder his staring didn’t start her on fire. In none of her previous lovers had she ever glimpsed such urgency, such desire, such encompassing lust. He looked like he wanted to devour her and them some. It was enough to make her weak in the knees.

“I won’t ever hurt you,” he stated slowly, thumb stroking the back of her skull. “You _will_ like what I do to you. But the thing is…I won’t stop doing it to you. No matter how much you beg. Soon, the pleasure will melt into pain and you’ll say just about anything to get me to stop.”

Her breaths were pumping out of her, intermingling with his.

“And will you?”

The corner of his upper lip shot up.

“Depends on my mood.”

When she bit her lip, Arthur brought their heads together, so they were connected by a sheen of sweat on their foreheads. His breaths puffed out into her mouth. 

“Mmm…in all seriousness…are you comfortable? I uh…I know I’ve been a little overeager.”

“I’m fine…you’re just-you’re surprisin’ me is all. I never woulda suspected ya to have such a filthy mouth on ya.”

His lips shot up at this.

“Learned it from you, sweet girl. Figured you’d _ah_ appreciate it.”

Her nod was tentative.

“Y’er full of surprises Mr. Fleck.”

“You have no idea.” He kissed her shoulder and released her head. “I’m going to take you into your bedroom and then I’m going to fuck you. That sound good _darlin’_?”

He tried to bring her forward with him, but she pushed against him. Sometime during his attack on her body, her glass of moonshine had slipped from her hand and spilled onto the floor. It was the least of her concerns truthfully.

“Condoms,” she blurted before he could do something like throw her over his shoulder. “I uh…they’re in the bathroom behind the mirror.”

He froze behind her, burying his face into her hair. When he didn’t speak right away, she said his name.

“I uh.” His voice had lost its cocky demeanor. “I spent some time in Arkham. As a patient. Not by choice.”

She nodded.

“And uh…I don’t know if they got me to consent to it or whether my mother signed something…but…I was uh…sterilized.”

She made to turn around and he let her, for the first time all evening refusing to meet her gaze. Her hands snuck under his chin and tilted his head up.

“How could you consent when by their definition you weren’t mentally coherent enough to make such a decision?”

“I don’t know.” A frown was engrained into his features. “I…choose not to linger on it. Did you uh…did you want children?”

She could tell he was dreading her reaction.

“It’s not as reoccurring of a thought as it is for other women my age,” she admitted. “I mean down the line maybe, but it’s not a deal breaker.”

“I’ll make you just as happy as any children would,” he promised seriously, leaning in to kiss her forehead.

Though the sentiment was from the heart, she was surprised he was thinking so far ahead into the future. It was clear he was considering them long term, while she herself was unsure.

Sensing her hesitation, Arthur crouched down and picked her up under her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist and allowed him to carry her to her bed.

When she was gently deposited, Arthur slid down to her legs and slipped his fingers into the waistband of her underwear. He slid them off, though not without giving them a generous sniff, of which she didn’t know what to think of. Virgin he may have been, but he was throwing at her a lot of actions she hadn’t recalled in previous sexual encounters. She supposed so long as they were both enjoying themselves it didn’t matter.

But she did notice how he seemed to slip between two varying personalities. The meek and mild and soft Arthur and the handsy and lude and intense Arthur. She wondered if it just wasn’t a sex thing. Tuning into your more animalistic tendencies. She supposed he was right. She had much more a mouth on her when engaged in the pleasure of the senses.

Arthur rubbed his cock through his briefs, eying her pussy like it was a prize.

“Let me know if I’m any good at this,” he said, licking his lips. “I uh…I haven’t tried this before.”

“You’ve ‘xceeded my expectation’s thus far. Can’t imagine ya won’t be a natural from what I witnessed earlier.”

He threw her a mischievous smile before lowering himself between her legs and spreading her ankles until her feet were curled around his back. He blew a blast of air at her hot, moist center. She twitched as a result, grabbing onto the metal railings of her bedframe. She had a feeling she’d be needing their support.

He started out by kissing the hood of her clitoris like it was a favorite pet of his. His tongue soon sought out her clit, tongue moving in clockwise rotations around it. Just when he sucked at it with his teeth, her hips shot up. He took this opportunity to slip back in the two fingers that had previously been in her and curled them at such an angle that her knuckles tightened until they were white.

“Mmm…_fuck_ Arthur, I was right. Y’er a fuckin’ natural.”

Groaning his approvement into her, he sped up both his tongue and his fingers. She twisted and moaned, both trying to escape and to get closer. Her body wanted more, but she didn’t think mentally she could handle it. He built her up so quickly to the peak and she wasn’t sure she was ready to dive off.

Thankfully, he made that decision for her. With a final lick at her glistening folds, he prowled toward her on his hands and knees, hair damp with sweat as he immediately kissed her, thighs dropping on each side of hers.

“Can’t wait anymore,” was his explanation between kisses, one hand reaching down to throw off his briefs.

She slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him down toward her, eager to return the favor to his neck. But Arthur instead pinned her wrists down, hair tickling her face.

There was a moment where neither of them moved, their heavy panting the only sounds in the room. She playfully bumped her forehead against his, biting her lower lip.

An unusual chuckle escaped him. She didn’t think she’d ever heard someone quite laugh in that way. His eyes had darkened considerably, seemingly in a trance.

“I-.” He was struggling to articulate something. “I’m just _so_ relieved that he likes you too.”

Her eyebrows shot together.

“Who likes me too?”

His lips were set in a frozen smile. The same feeling of foreboding she’d felt taking him in for the first time in the alley, resurfaced full force.

She’d been wrong before. She wasn’t drowning, she was being pulled in.

And just like that he blinked and her Arthur was back again, littering her face with kisses as he positioned his cock up with her entrance.

Her body was ready, but her mind was reeling. She just glimpsed something that once again hinted he wasn’t all there.

_What lies beneath isn’t sane._

She shivered at the same time he entered her. As a result he wasn’t able to get all the way in. He tried again, releasing her wrists and propping a hand next to her head.

It was in the back of her throat to tell him to stop. She couldn’t think properly with the excess of hormones. Her psyche was trying to enlighten her to something important.

But then Arthur was buried to the hilt and all thoughts ceased to be. She clawed her nails into his back, earning her a gruff moan. His lips were back on hers, silencing any potential protests.

His rhythm started out slow, seemingly testing the waters. Determining what he liked and what she did. That he was experimental allowed him to learn very quickly where her G-spot was. And he pounded into it like a vibrating jackhammer. The hand not propping him up, shot down to her clitoris, circling it with his index finger and then rubbing it between index and thumb, squeezing it slowly.

She could do nothing but give herself over to the long overdue pleasure, their voices loud and unrepentant.

Neither of them lasted long and he ended up spilling into her the same time she milked him for all he was worth. They were engaged in a messy kiss and as the last of his orgasm subsided, his teeth bit down on her lower lip. She’d noted earlier that he had sharp teeth and not until she came down from her pleasure did she realize he had nipped open her bottom lip and was trailing his tongue over the open wound, groaning into her mouth as he did so. She let him lap it all up, not especially crazy about tasting her own blood.

He leaned back to peer at her, eyes hooded and animated.

“You’ll watch me on_ the Murray Franklin Show_?”

If possible, the green in his eyes amped up in intensity.

Though her answer was yes, she got the feeling she wasn’t in a position to say no. Which didn’t make sense. Arthur was extremely understanding.

“Of course,” she confirmed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He dove into her neck at this remark, resuming his earlier kisses while repositioning them so she rested against his front, arms shooting to cuff her around her midsection. Both legs wrapped around hers and when he was finally done assaulting her neck, he rested his chin atop her head, sighing contentendly.

She enjoyed cuddling, but this felt…restricting. Her limbs were wedged into place and any time she tried loosening his hold just a little, he’d tighten it.

“Love you, Fiona,” he murmured against her hair.

She didn’t answer back, but this hardly dissuaded him from falling into a peaceful slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing smut has always been one of my weaknesses, so apologies if that wasn't to expectations.  
On another note- REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOD! Well, it will for one of them.
> 
> In regards to Arthur being sterilized, it's my own headcannon I formed after reading a theory that Arthur's mom was actually telling the truth about her affair with Thomas Wayne (it's that photo Joker looks at near the end on MFS where Thomas compliments her smile). Its theorized she was made out to be crazy and conned into signing forms and being slandered. The elite control many aspects of our society, so I'm not in disbelief about it. My headcannon is that Thomas Wayne knew of Arthur Fleck and to ensure he didn't potentially have a grandson tying him to Penny, paid the doctors off to get him neutered. Bby has suffered so much :'(
> 
> Ayyyy our darling Joaquin won (as he rightly deserved) GG's for Best Actor and gave such a soft, potent speech. I have so much love for this sassy, sensitive, self-aware man. His performance quite literally gave me the motivation to write after years of being MIA from the fanfiction scene, and words can't express my gratitude to him.


	10. Chapter 10

Fiona’s dreams that night bordered on the verge of nightmares. She was weaving through alleyways as quickly as she could, attempting to outrun the brute she’d cut down with her machete. He steadily gained speed as she felt her own legs wobble from the effort to keep ahead of him.

Just as she rounded another corner, her feet froze. Ahead of her loomed Arthur. He was wearing the same makeup from the alley she first met him in. His smile was downright radiant and something in it made her retreat a few steps, temporarily willing to risk facing the thug behind her rather than the man in front.

“It’s alright, Fiona,” he sing-songed, approaching her. “You’re safest with me. I’ll do anything to protect you.”

The brute had just turned the corner behind her when Arthur unexpectedly reached into his pocket and whipped out a knife. Before she could blink, he’d hurled it, sticking the man directly in the throat. He dropped to the cement with a gurgle and keeled over.

Wide-eyed and panting, she glimpsed between the dead body and the man responsible for it.

“Told ya!” he exclaimed with a giggle, covering the distance between them. “I’ll kill anyone that tries to harm you, sweet girl. Your mother included.”

This was enough to startle her out of the dream. Her eyes fluttered open, fingers sinking into her sheets. Something vibrated from in between her legs, shooting up her body. A groan flew from her lips as a pressure below her navel became more insistent.

_The hell?_

Her eyes opened fully to find her sprawled out on her bed, legs spread, and Arthur on his knees between them, eating her out. Stifling a gasp, she tried to say something, but he dove his tongue into her the same time his thumb massaged her clitoris.

“A-Arthur,” she stuttered out, twisting her head in each direction.

He answered her by speeding up his ministrations, his own moans of pleasure echoing into her.

From how close her climax was, she suspected he’d been doing this for quite some time. She didn’t know how to feel about that. He’d most likely began while she was still asleep. That he didn’t ask her permission, despite how pleasurable she found his actions, unnerved her slightly.

But whatever protests she had vanished as her hips jerked into Arthur’s waiting mouth, orgasm ripping through her like a lightning bolt. Her lower body shuddered violently as Arthur continued lapping away at her, his own hand stroking his cock as he did so.

“So good,” he mumbled, slowing his pace so he could kiss her moistness. “So, so good.” He leaned back, eyes hooded. “Do you wanna know how good?”

Before she could answer, he dove at her, dragging his stiff cock over her tummy. His arms positioned themselves on either side of her as he sunk his head and kissed her dazed, partially open lips.

She’d never tasted herself before and couldn’t help but blush upon doing so. Arthur’s tongue sought to re-memorize itself with every inch of her. He ended the intense kiss with a sharp nip to her bottom lip, making the wound from last night reignite its throbbing.

Exhaling shakily, she watched him watch her. He tilted his head slightly, brown locks tickling her cheeks.

“Morning darlin’,” he drawled. “Hope you didn’t mind; I uh I couldn’t help myself. You’re far too delicious to pass up. And you were making the _sweetest_ noises.”

Her thighs slid together at this proclamation, but just as quickly, one of Arthur’s knees wedged them back apart. The look he aimed her was sharp. Like he didn’t approve of her closing herself off to him.

“H-hi,” she mumbled, attempting to compose herself. “Um…what time is it?”

He seemed disappointed by the response.

“A little after eight,” he answered, licking away the last of her juices from his lips.

“I should probably get ready for work,” she said quietly.

His brows shot together at that.

“Call in for the day.”

“If I didn’t own the store I would.” She didn’t know why she felt like she was defending herself. “Downside of bein’ the boss.”

He didn’t smile, expression clouding over with something that made her want to bring her legs together again.

Just as quickly as it’d come, it was gone, and Arthur was smiling lazily.

“You work so hard, sweet girl,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. “One day you won’t ever have to lift a finger again. And you’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

She chuckled at that, cocking her head.

“Maybe in a dream world. ‘Til that day comes, I gotta bring home the bacon like everyone else. Plus…I don’t mind it. I don’t know what to do with myself if I’m not productive.”

He wriggled his brows at her with a sly grin before nearing her neck, tongue darting out to lick her pulse.

“I could think of a few things,” he murmured, latching himself onto a purple hickey, intent on darkening its color.

Her nipples strained toward him, sending shockwaves through her as they brushed across his chest.

“I-I really gotta-.”

He cut her off with a combination of teeth, sucking in her abused flesh, and tongue to soothe the sore area.

“Arthur, darlin’….,” she breathed out, hands sliding up his back and gripping onto his shoulders. She attempted to tug him off, but he held steady, grinding his weeping cock into her tummy.

“This won’t take long,” he promised softly.

He continued to mark her neck with teeth, causing small little gasps to escape her. He’d then run his tongue over each bite, sucking at them until they glowed red. She hesitated to see the state of her neck.

Arthur rocked forward a few more times, groans filling up the bedroom. With a couple of thrusts of his hips his cock twitched and ejaculated across her stomach. He littered her neck with tender kisses as the last of his cum spurted out onto her.

Fiona’s fingers were still buried in his shoulders. She tried tugging him back again, and this time, he let her.

“I’ll never get enough of you,” he declared, peering at her with a blissed-out expression.

“This’ll have t’a do ya over for the time bein’,” she answered, trying to sit up. “I really gotta get goin’ soon. Store can’t open ‘lest I’m there.”

He allowed her the space to wriggle out from beneath him. She stood unsteadily, the area between her legs aching.

“I’m gonna shower,” she told him as she made her way to the bathroom. “Um…feel free t’a have some cereal or coffee if you’d like.”

Just as she reached the entryway, Arthur’s arms snuck around her middle and pulled her back into him. She didn’t know how, but he was already hard again.

_Man’s got the stamina of a porn star. Probably what happens when ya haven’t gotten laid in so long._

“Can I join you?” he whispered into her ear, almost shyly.

If she wasn’t behind on schedule already, she’d have probably said yes. But with how needy Arthur was being, she got the feeling showering with him would most likely make her late for work.

“’Nother time,” she promised, going to detangle his hands from her.

His muscles twitched beneath her, briefly tightening in protest before releasing her. She didn’t have to look at him to know he was disappointed.

“Later, I promise,” she reassured, softer.

He didn’t answer and she didn’t wait for one. With a slight hustle in her step, she made it to the bathroom and closed the door. Normally she didn’t lock it seeing as she was the only one living there. But this time around, she did, not fully trusting Arthur not to sneak in and try to join her.

She threw on the hot water and stepped in a moment later.

As she speedily washed herself, scrubbing herself free of all fluids – hers and Arthur’s included – she let her thoughts wander to the past twelve hours.

Guilt didn’t weight down on her nearly as heavy as the morning before, and she knew she had the man on the other side of her door to thank for it. Though she hadn’t forgiven herself entirely, she certainly felt more validated in doing what she’d done. She wouldn’t go so far as to call herself a hero like Arthur did, but it comforted her to know he didn’t hate her as much as she’d anticipated. He almost seemed…_proud_. Like she’d done both of them a service by snuffing out such a terrible individual.

She realized she didn’t mind thinking about her act in this way. Had she not put a stop to him, he’d have tried something similar, or worse, on someone else. The difference was she’d been ready for him. She couldn’t say whoever else he chose to terrorize would have had the same luxury.

No, she wasn’t a hero. But she wasn’t the monster she’d initially made herself out to be. And that…that she could live with. For the time being at least.

While drying herself off, she found herself considering: what next? She’d sort of gone past the point of no return in her relationship with Arthur. And it was clear to her that he expected something much more serious.

Did she?

He was talented in bed there was no denying that. The sex alone made it worth keeping him in her life. And though he had acquired an edge to him that sometimes made her nervous, for the most part, he was great company. He seemed to always be in her corner, soothing her no matter how awful she felt. He held a sense of humor that made it easy to banter off him. He was a gentleman…for the most part. There really was no reason she shouldn’t see him as an ideal mate.

And yet…_and yet_…she felt like there was something she wasn’t seeing. An epiphany that tickled her back and any time she went to itch at it, it switched locations.

_Might just be paranoid ‘cos I been single so long. When you’ve had that independence for such a while it feels weird havin’ someone depend on ya. Havin’ someone want ya the way Arthur does._

She wasn’t entirely satisfied with this conclusion, but if she gave it any further thought, she’d be late. So, she opted to think it over when she had some downtime.

Unlocking the door, Fiona poked her head out, clutching the towel tighter around her. Last thing she needed was Arthur to catch an eyeful of her. She might not make it to her bedroom unmolested.

Her nose picked up on two intermingled scents. The first was coffee, which she was thankful for. The second was cigarette smoke.

Curiously, she padded out of the bathroom and into her living room. Arthur was perched against her window ledge, clad in his pants but lacking a shirt, nearly finished with his cigarette. He’d cracked her window open a little to flick the ash out. He didn’t immediately notice her presence, seemingly lost in thought as a thumb brushed over his bottom lip back and forth. Every now and again he must have thought of something funny for he descended into a fit of giggles before straightening back up.

“Ya smoke?” she stated dumbly.

Her words jostled him out of whatever daydream he’d been immersed in. He glanced at her sheepishly, tossing the cigarette out the window.

“Uh…yeah. I’ve been trying to quit, but it’s…_tough_. I…I hope you don’t mind me doing so in here.”

_I do,_ she wanted to say. After having dealt with it for so long at the store, the smell of tobacco made her somewhat nauseous.

But he looked apologetic and at least he’d had the decency to open her window.

“No, I don’t,” she decided on, glancing at the clock. “Be back in a jiffy.”

He shifted toward her, as if intending to follow her. But she kept him pinned in place with her stare, which must have displayed the hurry she felt.

“I made you a cup of coffee,” he said, gesturing his head toward the kitchenette.

“Thank you.”

He nodded as she went to her bedroom. Again, she found herself locking the door without any really good reason other than worry that Arthur would distract her.

When she was finished changing, she unlocked the door and opened it. Arthur was standing on the other side, leaning on the entryway with one hand. He still lacked a shirt, and his proximity made her cheeks redden.

His free hand held a mug of coffee and he wordlessly extended it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting it.

She blew on it a little before taking a healthy gulp.

“What time do you get out?” he asked, crossing his arms.

She hadn’t really had a chance last night to take in just how skinny Arthur was. Almost malnourished. This perusal temporarily distracted her from giving an answer.

“Eight,” she answered.

“Do you want to do something after?”

He was watching her from beneath his lashes, chewing at the corner of his thumbnail.

“Don’t ya gotta start practicin’ for Murray Franklin?”

“I’ve nearly got the act down. I’ll work out the loose ends tomorrow morning.”

He picked up on her hesitance and frowned.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The genuine hurt in his tone had her offering his bicep a comforting touch.

“’Course not, Arthur. I just-all this is sorta new to me,” she explained, squeezing him. “I haven’t had a boyfriend in a couple of years. I um…I kinda just need some space t’a breathe. Right now at least. Get acquainted with the fact that I’ll no longer be single after such a long time.”

She thought he’d understand where she was coming from considering he’d been that way his whole life.

Instead, he chuckled impishly and shook his head.

“What’s there to get acquainted to, sweet girl? I love you and you love me. It kills me to be apart from you as it is.”

_He loves me? I’ve not even known him two months. And I certainly don’t love him. Feel strongly for, yes, but I only know surface level details ‘bout him. _

“How about this,” she suggested, lowering her arm. “We have a date night Thursday after y’er performance. We’ll get some drinks, see a movie if you’d like, and celebrate y’er success. I’ll even close up early so we have more time together.”

His lips twitched. He didn’t speak, eying her with such an intense expression she momentarily lost the ability to form words.

A smile finally revealed itself, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Whatever my sweet girl wants,” he answered. “Thursday night it is.”

_Thank goodness._

“Great. Um…” She glanced behind her. “’Sppose ya can get dressed? Hate t’a rush ya, but I gotta get there ‘fore I have some pissed off co-workers.”

His smile deepened. Still, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course.”

She turned to her side to let him by. He made it a point to brush past her body as closely as he could get away with, smirking when he looked down at her.

His frame caged her against the door and one of his fingers settled on a tender hickey near her pulse. He traced each mark he’d made. His eyes shone like he was privy to an inside joke.

“Gorgeous,” was all he ended up murmuring before walking inside her room.

She closed the door to give him privacy and headed to the bathroom. Steam still clung to her mirror, so she wiped it away to see how bad the damage was.

“Holy shit,” she mumbled to herself.

Both sides of her neck were peppered with dark maroons and purple. If she peered closer, she could even see the outline of his teeth around some of them. There was absolutely no way she wouldn’t get grilled by her coworkers and friends.

Gulping, she went to her coat closet and took out a light, checkered scarf and hooked it twice around her neck, settling the material overtop the marks. She wasn’t quite ready to explain the going ons of her sex life. To her, such matters were better left private.

When Arthur walked out of her room, clad in the same outfit as last evening, she turned to him, coffee nearly extinguished from her mug.

He instantly frowned when his eyes located the scarf. She could tell her wanted to say something. A thought was resting behind his eyes.

But upon noticing her gaze on him, he merely shook his head and threw her a smile.

“Can I at least walk you to work?”

“We’ll probably have t’a hail a cab at this point, but yeah, sure. It won’t be too outta y’er way will it? I’d hate t’a make y’er distance home longer than it needs to be.”

He muttered something under his breath she didn’t catch. She took a step closer to him.

“What was that?”

“The distance is no trouble,” he answered.

She got the feeling that’s not what he’d said, but she was in too much a rush to harp on it further.

They were just about to walk out her front door when Arthur asked, “You’re not taking your machete?”

She didn’t move for a few seconds, head casted down.

“It um…brings up memories of that night. It’ll take awhile ‘fore I’m comfortable havin’ it on me.”

“But what if someone tries to hurt you again? You’ll be defenseless.”

She shrugged.

“I’ll take my chances.”

She didn’t look back at him as she walked out. He moved over to let her lock the door, and after a few precautionary tugs, they set off.

When they reached the ground floor, Eleanor and Lizzy were chatting up the desk clerk at the lobby. Upon spotting Fiona and Arthur, Eleanor waved giddily.

Fiona was ready to dash out of the building but didn’t want to be rude. She hung back to return the wave, sensing Arthur stiffen beside her.

“The happy couple is finally together,” she called. “When’s the wedding, dear?”

She rolled her eyes. The women were too imaginative for their own good.

Arthur surprised her by answering for her.

“Soon,” he assured seriously. “_Very_ soon.”

She glanced up at him, cocking a brow. She hoped he was just humoring them. The idea of a relationship was still something she needed to adjust to, nevermind marriage.

“We have to get goin’. I’ll talk to ya ladies later!”

Hailing down a cab took longer than it should have. By the time one paused beside them, she was fidgeting slightly. When Arthur followed her into the backseat, her leg started to bounce as she hastily threw the cabbie her address.

One of Arthur’s hands landed on her bouncing knee. She turned to him.

“Relax,” he said quietly, squeezing her once. “It’s not the end of the world if they have to wait a few minutes for you to show up.”

She released a deep breath, nodding.

“Y’er right. It’s just…I like bein’ punctual. Sends a bad message if I can’t show up on time to my own store.”

“It’s _your_ store,” he emphasized. “You can open it whenever you damn well please.”

She smiled at that.

“Y’er gonna get me fired,” she teased.

He leaned toward her ear, voice dropping.

“I’ll have a word with the boss. _Butter_ them up a little.”

His hand traveled up a few inches.

“And if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to persuade them _personally_.”

She clamped a hand around his wrist before it could ascend any further. Her cheeks burned at the contact. Thankfully, the cabbie was too preoccupied with the morning rush to give them much attention.

“Arthur,” she tried to warn, attempting to dislodge his hand.

“Mmm…,” he offered her earlobe a nip before removing his hand. “You’re so pretty when you’re flustered. Gives me incentive to keep you in this state.”

“Y’er insatiable,” she whispered back.

His grin was wolfish.

“You have no idea.”

He mercifully returned his focus to the front, occasionally peeking at her and smiling.

It was just shy of nine o’clock when the cab pulled up to her store. She pulled out a wad of cash and offered Arthur a twenty.

“I’ll pay for y’er trip home. Least I could do.”

He shook his head.

“Keep it, sweet girl. I have to make a few stops along the way.”

“Ya sure?”

“I am.”

He caressed her cheek, thumb gliding over her soft skin.

“I’ll see you tomorrow evening?”

She nodded as his thumb burrowed itself into a dimple.

“And you’ll watch, right?”

“Wouldn’t dare miss it.”

He brought her in for a deep kiss, tongue grinding against hers sensuously. She was red-faced by the time he released her.

She waved him off with a blush and turned to the store.

Her shift passed by much smoother than yesterday. She specifically made it a point to focus her attention on interaction with customers. Her mind was less apt to stray to murkier thoughts if she kept herself engaged with others.

Sometime shortly after noon Lou popped by with a folder stuffed with papers. He offered her the folder and she accepted it with an arched brow.

“It’s an outline of the album we wanna make,” he explained as she sifted through the papers. “Thinkin’ we wanna call it _Jazzgrass Invasion Vol. 1_. Figure the title piques y’er interest and if ya end up likin’ the songs, ya know it’ll be an anthology. We got eight songs roughly between seven to thirteen minutes long. As far as theme goes, we’re lookin’ to introduce people t’a this fusion. We’ll start out gentle ‘n polite and end frantically. We also were thinkin’ since none of us are particularly talented singers about talkin’ to Kane ‘bout hookin’ us up with someone t’a collaborate with. A couple of the songs on here are just itchin’ t’a have a smoky, sultry female singer.”

She smiled, eyes scanning their ideas for album art.

“That would be swell,” she agreed. “I sometimes envision lyrics to some of y’er diddy’s. A blues singer or someone in the vein of Bobby Darin, maybe.”

“We uh…we also wrote two versions of the last song “Memphis”. One version’s just us, the other has a banjo part for ya.”

She glanced up in surprise.

“Lou, I couldn-.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved off. “I know y’er reservations. But we want ya to be part of this experience. It ain’t anythin’ crazy long…just a bit of a solo in the third act. It all sounds so right when I hear it in my head.”

She still seemed unsure.

“Think about it at least,” he said, slipping one of the papers out of the folder. “Here’s the sheet music for it. Give y’er part a go and if ya like it, we’ll meet up ‘fore seein’ Kane t’a rehearse. Sound good?”

“Um…yeah.”

Truthfully, she was touched at the gesture and their desire to include her. It made her feel like everything she’d endured since coming to Gotham was worth it. She had the potential to not only be involved in her band’s debut to the general public, but to also show off her skills on her instrument.

“Thank you,” she added, clutching the music to her chest. “I ‘ppreciate y’all wantin’ to involve me. And I love what y’all have come up with so far. I think Kane’s gonna be impressed at how thought out y’er concepts and songs are.”

“Hope so,” he answered. “This album is close to my heart. Our hearts. I’d be a lil’ devastated if he didn’t take to it.”

“I doubt that’ll be an issue.”

By the time she locked up the store hours later, her feet were eager to return home and try out the solo Lou had written for her. She was so caught up in her elation she failed to notice the figure watching her from behind a nearby vehicle.

Arthur’s eyes caressed her petite form, darkening as lustful thoughts bubbled in him. It killed him that she was choosing to spend the night alone. _Not with him._ And worse yet, she seemed excited about it. It took genuine effort not to cross the distance between them and “conveniently” bump into her.

He knew he could get his way; Fiona was soft and kind like that. He could persuade her to have him walk her home. He could feign exhaustion and be invited in for a bit. He could start out caressing her back innocently before allowing his hand to cup her ass and knead it. Which reminded him he hadn’t given it nearly the attention it deserved. He had after all, following their first meeting, promised to sink his teeth into it. His mouth watered at the thought. If possible, he wanted every part of her body in some shape or form to have a physical reminder that she was his. A reminder that for once in his life, someone belonged to him.

He debated on whether to follow her home. She would no doubt be more wary of her surroundings following her encounter with Stag. It was possible that she’d pick up on his presence. That wouldn’t do anything to ease her impression of him, which he was dismayed to realize wasn’t as lax as he’d hoped for. She did little to hide the moments where he made her nervous.

He didn’t want her to be. He couldn’t help that his love for her was so strong that it sometimes made him lose his sanity a little. And his new persona…the shift in his perspective regarding himself and his place in the world…it was far less subtle in displaying his affection toward her. It wanted to boast, it wanted to conquer, it wanted to own. He had a difficult time finding reasons why he shouldn’t.

Just before Fiona disappeared from view, Arthur decided on going back home. Knowing she was weaponless made him uneasy, but it beat the risk of being caught following her. Plus, he needed to rehearse a few more times for the show tomorrow.

_She’s proven how tough she is. She will get home without incident. _

Satisfied with this, he turned in the opposite direction and began whistling a jingle for a toy commercial he’d seen earlier, skipping along as he did so.

***

Thursday morning found Fiona in much better spirits than the past two. She again had a nightmare involving meandering through alleys in search of an exit. This time it was Arthur that chased her and it’d been imperative that he didn’t catch her. She knew something really bad would happen if he did.

She didn’t know what dreaming about him like this meant. Maybe he was there because he was the only one who knew of her encounter with the brute? She couldn’t imagine him actively trying to harm her.

Barring the nightmare aside, she fried up some bacon, scrambled up some eggs, brewed some coffee, and replayed her solo for “Memphis”. The rhythm was so catchy she barely had to look at the sheet music.

She’d thought it over most of last night and decided she would let Kane make the judgment call. The Crawlers would play the song with her involvement and then without. She figured he would know best if the song was improved by her contribution.

Work went sluggishly, but she was pumped full of so much caffeine that she always found something to do. Their newest shipment of records came in and she was excited to see Madonna among them. And just as she’d predicted, the album sold well. She was out thirteen copies by the time evening had set in.

Josie moreso than Dale was thrilled they’d be closing early. Apparently, she had a blind date and hadn’t yet settled on what to wear. She almost asked her if she and her date wanted to tag along with Arthur and her. It would keep Arthur’s handsiness to a minimum.

But she figured this wouldn’t go over well with him. He didn’t strike her as a particularly sociable person and she was worried he wouldn’t be as comfortable around her as when they were by themselves. Josie could be a little more invasive off the clock than on. The last thing she needed was for Arthur to retreat into himself.

She closed up at seven and made it home by seven forty-five. After a quick shower – each time she passed her coat closet, her heart temporarily plummeted into her stomach - she flipped on her television just as Murray was making his entrance. She too was conflicted on what to wear. Jeans and a t-shirt seemed too casual for their first official date. She was debating on her white summer dress with her leather jacket and cowboy boots. Formal, but still in line with her style.

Murray had just finished interviewing an animal doctor whose name escaped her. He transitioned to introduce Arthur, but not before further salting the wound and replaying his stand up at Pogo’s.

Her heart clenched as she watched laughter consume him. She tightened the sofa blanket around her, almost wishing he’d invited her to come along with him. There was no doubt Murray was long overdue for a good scolding.

Her brows knitted when Murray referred to Arthur by the stage name Joker.

_Didn’t realize he’d be performin’ as an alter ego. _

Her mouth dropped open when the curtains parted.

Arthur sauntered out on stage with undeniable swagger, dancing as he did so. She couldn’t remove her gaze from his face. It was covered by meticulously applied clown make up, the coverage shedding years off his appearance. His suit was neatly pressed and went well with his vest, long sleeved dress shirt, and tie. And upon taking in his hair, she leaned forward.

_Did he dye it…green?_

It didn’t look bad necessarily, but she suspected they would get some stares later in the evening wherever it is they chose to go.

Her eyes widened when he approached the doctor, wrapped her up in a startling embrace, before abruptly dipping her and landing a big, lengthy smooch on her.

_Should I feel…jealous? Is it all part of the act?_

The doctor was struggling to escape his hold. He eventually obliged, releasing her before offering the audience his attention.

She was amazed that the meek and mild Arthur whom she’d defended from a group of snot nosed kids was so fearless on stage. Fearless and in control. One look at Murray’s face and you could tell he hadn’t been expecting that.

The events that followed would haunt her dreams for years to come.

He threw her off by peering into the main camera and waving his fingers coyly.

“I want to say hi,” he spoke with an inflection in his tone she’d never heard, “to my fiancé Fiona watching at home. Love you bunches, sweet girl. Can’t wait to see you again.” He blew the camera a kiss.

She paled.

_Was he serious? _

Murray made a smart-ass remark regarding his entrance which Arthur handled more gracefully than she anticipated. She had the feeling he was well-aware Murray was trying to make fun of him. It gave the interview an undeniable tension.

When Arthur consulted his joke book, Fiona relaxed ever so slightly.

She couldn’t find any traces of the Arthur she knew in the man on screen. But his jokes would surely bring him out. His humor was silly and corny; an integral part of him.

The exact opposite happened. He revealed such a dark joke that even she had trouble finding the humor in it.

Murray and the audience were understandably aghast, which only seemed to agitate Arthur. He rolled his eyes and launched into defense mode, lashing out at what was and wasn’t considered humor.

And that’s when he admitted what he found _thoroughly_ funny.

“I shot those Wall Street guys.”

She froze.

_It has to be a part of the act. It has to be a part of the act. It has to be-._

“That’s not funny,” Murray commented.

“It’s not a joke.”

He went on to describe the killings in detail and his reasoning for it. He placed the blame on society and people like Thomas Wayne. The deeper into his monologue he went, the more unhinged he was becoming.

She could only watch on, just as petrified and disoriented as everyone else in the audience. They had all gone deathly quiet as Murray pressed Arthur for more details.

It was when Arthur redirected his fury toward Murray, calling him out for attempting to humiliate him, that dread overtook her body. He spoke quietly, yet pointedly, eying Murray with such barely concealed venom she was surprised Murray didn’t feel its sting.

Despite her shock and horror, she couldn’t help but feel a mild form of pride at seeing Arthur put Murray in his place. And he’d clearly hit a sore spot because not a moment later and Murray was trying to usher Arthur off the stage.

“Do you want to hear another joke, Mur-_ray_?”

Murray was trying to interrupt him, but Arthur would not be deterred.

“What do you get when you cross a mentally ill loner with a society that’s abandoned him?” An arm disappeared behind him as he sprang to his feet. “You get what you fucking deserve!”

She gasped as Arthur produced a revolver, aimed it straight at Murray’s head, and pulled the trigger.

The backdrop of the stage splattered with blood and chunks of brain matter. Pandemonium broke out, the audience’s screams reverberating in her eardrums. The doctor was being embraced protectively by the other male guest. Arthur briefly turned to them before returning his attention to Murray. He lifted the gun and shot him in the chest until the clip was emptied.

He then giggled before tossing the gun, seemingly unsure what to do with himself. He paced erratically before doing a little dance.

Her hands trembled as she watched him gloat. Bile rose up in her. She was going to throw up. She didn’t know when, only that it would be coming.

_This can’t be real. I…this is all a joke. How could I’ve missed this side to him?_

She recalled their night together. The frequent shifts in personality. The crazed, eerie look in his eye. The “_I’m so glad he likes you too_” line, which only now was beginning to make sense.

As he skipped up to the camera, she backed away into the cushions, scared he’d somehow crawl out of the screen and into her living room.

_“Love you bunches, sweet girl. Can’t wait to see you again.”_

She prayed that wasn’t a promise.

_There’s no way the police won’t arrest him. No way. _

He was tackled off screen before he could continue his tirade. The television flipped to a _Standing By _screen.

She blinked dumbly, not realizing she was shaking like a leaf.

And then the vomit came. And she wasn’t quick enough to make it to the waste bin. Her dress was drenched in her earlier meal as well as a seemingly endless ooze of coffee. She coughed roughly, trying to catch her breath as her stomach continued to churn.

When the last of it was heaved out, she attempted to stand. Her legs were quivering as she stumbled to the bathroom. She cleaned herself off in a daze, slipping out of her dirtied dress and setting it on the edge of her tub.

_He’ll be caught. He won’t come here. He won’t._

She wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth or trying to convince herself.

She ended up standing in the bathroom for close to a half hour, gazing at herself in the mirror. She was scared. And ashamed at herself for not trusting that there wasn’t more to Arthur than what he presented. She felt betrayed. Betrayed because she hadn’t trusted her instinct, betrayed that Arthur dared behave so sweetly to her when all along such violence was stored within him. Though she had showered not even an hour earlier, she was tempted to do so again. Scrub his touch off of her until she glowed red. Scrub off his hickeys until it was unmarked flesh again. She was embarrassed. Those close to her would no doubt ask if she was who he’d been referring to when he deemed her his fiancé. And though she could always lie about it, Fiona wasn’t as common a name on this side of the country as it was in the South.

A teeth-chattering blast startled her. Her feet carried her back out into the living room. She peered out the window only to find all mayhem breaking loose. Droves of people were setting fire to cars in the parking lot, clad in clown masks made famous by the protesters. Some were carrying off items they’d looted. Someone’s gun went off, amplifying the chaos.

_Christ. He did all this._

She jumped when her phone rang. She didn’t think she could articulate words at the moment, so, opted to ignore it.

But whoever was trying to reach her was persistent. She wandered to it and picked up the receiver.

“’L-low?”

Someone was panting breathlessly on the other line.

“Fiona! It’s Josie…I-I heard about what happened on Murray Franklin. I had to reach you.” She sounded on the verge of crying. “That guy…that Joker guy…that’s who came by the store claiming to be your friend Steven. I swear to God I didn’t know! He-he was so polite and if I would have known-.”

A sob raked through her. Fiona could only stare, not fully registering the information.

When she did, her fingers nearly dropped the receiver.

“Y’er sure?”

_Please say no._

“Yes, I’m sure. He even asked me if-_if_ the person who shot the Wall Street guys was a hero. I-I told him when you worked next. I’m so, so sorry.”

She shook her head, feeling like her soul was trying to evacuate her body. This wasn’t happening. Arthur had not been to the store prior to Tuesday. He had not bended the truth to gain information about her.

“Fiona?”

“A-are ya safe?”

“Y-yes. We’re holed up at a hotel. Security isn’t letting anyone leave or enter. It’s…it’s madness out here, Fi.”

“Take care of y’erself, Jos,” she said hoarsely. “I-I’ll be at the store tomorrow just t’a make sure I still have one. We won’t open. Ya call me tomorrow mornin’ to let me know y’er safe.”

“I will, Fi. I just-_you_ take care, okay? He called you his _fiancé_. What if he comes after you?”

“H-he won’t,” she stated, just as she’d mentally rehearsed. “Shootin’ someone as esteemed as Murray…combined with his other killin’s…he won ‘t see outside a prison cell ever again.”

“God, I hope not. I-I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sleep with your machete tonight. You might need it.”

Her stomach lurched at the thought. She bid Josie a farewell before dropping the receiver.

“Breathe,” she mumbled to herself, fingers splaying overtop her coffee table. “Breathe, Fiona. Breathe.”

She closed her eyes and listened to her inhales and exhales.

_This isn’t happenin’. I’m not here, this isn’t happenin’. I’m at home. Vance is gonna come by for dinner with his girlfriend. We’ll drink, chat, ‘n reminisce ‘bout Pa. I’m not here._

She sniffled, tears prickling behind her eyelids.

Her phone rang again. She was slow to answer it, attempting to compose herself.

“Y-yes?” she stuttered out.

“_Fiona_? Please tell me you’re somewhere safe.”

She had never heard such worry in her mother’s voice before. It was enough to make a few stray tears wander down her cheeks.

“I am,” she assured, wiping at her nose. “Bunkerin’ down at home. Are you?”

“Yes.” Her voice lost some of its franticness upon learning of her safety. “I had a late night at the office. I’m being escorted back home. Whatever you do don’t leave your apartment. The rioting is city-wide. People are being shot and beaten on the street. There’s no distinction between good or bad.”

“I-I won’t, I promise.”

There was a long pause. Fiona spent it wiping away her tears.

“Fiona.” Evelyn’s voice was pregnant with hesitation. “This Joker…he was referring to you, wasn’t he?”

She so desperately wanted to lie and deny it.

“Y-yes,” she answered, eyes pinching shut. “Um…that day I was late f’er lunch and the interview…he’s the man I helped that was bein’ beaten by some kids.”

Her sigh was grave.

“And he gave me his number so I could check in on him,” she went on, wiping away a sheen of sweat that had gathered at the bottom of her neck. “I swear Ma…I had no idea he was capable of somethin’ like this. He was…sweet ‘n gentle.”

Evelyn didn’t speak right away. Fiona settled down on the sofa, clutching her throw pillow to her chest.

“What’s his real name?”

“Arthur. Arthur Fleck.”

“The night I came by your store he was standing across the street, watching you. When…when I confronted him after I left he said you were a good friend of his. He said his name was Mitchell. And he knew who I was.”

She felt like she’d been backhanded across the cheek.

“W-_what_?”

“I didn’t mention anything to you because…he made me feel…Christ, he made me feel even guiltier for treating you the way I had. I’d just finished telling you something jarring. You were in a vulnerable state. I didn’t want to compromise that further.” She released a deep breath. “I am so sorry, Fiona. I should have said something.”

She shook her head, struggling to comprehend this revelation. To Josie, he was Steven. To Ma, he was Mitchell. He had watched her without her knowing.

She was so glad she had nothing left to barf up.

“Y-ya didn’t know,” she reassured, not even bothering to blink back the tears. “He’s…the police…they’ve arrested him, right?”

“He’s been taken into custody, yes. Last I heard they were on the way to the precinct with him.”

Her shoulders slumped at this news.

_He won’t come for me. He won’t. They’ll lock him away and throw away the key._

“Nevertheless, please exercise caution. Don’t let anyone in even if they’re a friend. Make sure all doors and windows are locked. And..._keep_ your machete on you. I can’t make it to you tonight. But I am hoping the rioting will have died down by tomorrow morning.”

She nodded.

“I will. Thank ya, Ma. I-I love ya.”

“I love you too, Fiona. More than I’ll ever be able to express. Stay safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She hung up feeling slightly better. Not by much, but slightly.

Her Ma and Josie’s revelations regarding Arthur terrified her down to the bone. All this time he’d been acting. Portraying the role of Arthur while deep down inside he was Joker. Had he been acting when she saved him in that alley? He couldn’t have been, otherwise he’d have defended himself.

_Something broke him. Released this…this murderous lunatic. _

She both wanted to know, and then again was content with remaining ignorant.

Choosing not to linger on him, she stood and walked to her coat closet. It was astounding the array of feelings her machete produced. The journey it’s had since she’d first been christened with it.

No longer did she think about the man she'd killed when she saw it. She was back to thinking of it as a means of survival. A lengthy means of defense that _needed_ to be used should the time come for it. Because the alternative was a worse scenario than she cared to imagine.

She was tempted to pour herself some moonshine to ease her nerves, but she wanted to be as alert as possible in case she had any unwanted visitors. She re-checked the locks on all her doors and windows before tucking herself up on the sofa, machete between her thighs, blanket wrapped around her semi-trembling form.

There wasn’t a single channel that she could escape coverage of Murray’s death. The disbelief and shock had been unanimous. Arthur’s painted face was plastered every few seconds. Anyone who personally knew him was urged to call the police for information. They weren’t sure if he had more victims or not.

She had just begun to doze off when a breaking news alert flashed across her screen. She eyed the television lazily, swallowing down a yawn.

“Reports have just come in,” a news anchor hurriedly relayed. “The police vehicle carrying serial murderer Joker – who earlier this evening shot dead talk show host Murray Franklin – was struck by an incoming vehicle carrying protesters loyal to his cause. According to eyewitnesses, he was removed from the back of the vehicle and was met with widespread support. Both officers were killed upon impact. The Joker _has_ escaped and remains at large. He is presumably armed and extremely dangerous. Mayor Davis has declared martial law. Citizens are advised to stay indoors until it is lifted. Stay safe, Gotham.”

She was dreaming. She had to be.

_He was arrested. He won’t come for me. He won’t. He won’t._

She drifted off to sleep seconds later, repeating this mantra until she was convinced of its truthfulness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how lengthy this was, I needed it to end with coverage of Joker's escape so as to leave no uncertainties about the danger he poses, particularly to our protagonist, and indirectly to those she cares about. My heart feels for Fiona...but Arthur/Joker has always been two steps ahead of her. It's not until this chapter and the following one where she learns how inevitable them crossing paths again was. I've said it before, I want to give them both what they want. But it's not possible. Not without the other one getting hurt.
> 
> So our bby won both the SAG and Critics Choice Award for best actor and gave a shoutout to Heath, which warmed my heart so much. I love them both to the moon and back. Heath's death in particular I've still not fully processed. I remember watching E! News when word hit at the bottom of the screen that he'd passed. I kept re-reading it, convinced it was a practical joke. He was so young, so seasoned and at the prime of his career. I've been self-reflecting as of recent while working on a Dark Knight fanfic involving him why it is his death hit me so hard. It's tough to even watch films he's in. And I think it's because he was so...alive. So many of us walk around being cynical, jaded, hardened, cruel. We loathe being alive because we haven't mastered how to deal with the low moments. For some, suicide is a better alternative than feeling it all. But Heath was someone who'd mastered what it meant to be human. He committed and gave so much of himself to each character he played. He loved being alive. And when someone passes, at a young age at that, who loves being alive, I feel like the death hits harder. Joaquin keeping his memory alive and recognizing him for the free, fearless spirit that he was...it was just...encouraging. It's how I know our bby boy is a good dude even if he's got sass for DAYS.
> 
> Oscars here we come! Part of me is worried that the academy won't select him because of how charged and real his GG speech was. He's someone who uses his platform to be brutally honest with others and himself. They might deny him that out of spite. I hope not though. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your continued support. It's meant the world to me and I re-read your comments when I'm lacking confidence or motivation. Y'all are helping me reach the finish line and I couldn't be more grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> Bless Joaquin Phoenix for that performance. I haven't written much less posted anything in AGES, but his performance was super inspiring. And he was pretty fckn sexy I won't lie ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
This is also posted on my secondary writing blog - uglycourage.tumblr.com


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